Fallout Assiniboia
by tbguy1992
Summary: While Canada was annexed by the US long before the bombs fell, a new nation, the Dominion of Assiniboia, has established itself in the ashes of the Great Plains. But threats and dangers, outside and in, are threatening to rear their heads. And the story of a hero, the Auxiliary, is about to being. Because War. War Never Changes.
1. Intro & Chapter 1

**Introduction**

War. War never changes.

The destruction of the world in 2077 by nuclear fire and fallout caused an innumerable amount of lives to be lost, and the destruction was more than enough for civilization to be thrown back to it's most fundamental roots, if it survived at all. Some survived: great Vaults built to house the few that were selected to preserve humanity; those that were not directly attacked and avoided the fallout; and the citizens of occupied Winnipeg, Canada. A city either overlooked of divinely protected in the two-hour war was now the last remnant of an old world. Having already suffered a devastating conquest by a proud, arrogant and fearful America, the survivors of the war that the US created sought not only to survive, but triumph over their old occupiers. To do so, the began building a new nation: the Dominion of Assiniboia.

Peace, Order and Good Government, the calls of ancient Canada, became the rallying cry of Assiniboia, expanding with the aid of military and economic resources few others have, reclaiming almost all of Southern Manitoba. But as they pushed forward, the secrets of the Wasteland and those that inhabited it began to make themselves felt. Tribes and raiders threaten the tenuous communications of Assiniboia, reliant on old railway lines, winding rivers, and ancient highways. A frightening and undefeated criminal gang controls the city of Brandon, two hundred kilometers away on the old Trans-Canada Highway, and it looms as a boogeyman to the leaders of Assiniboia. And these are just the dangers that Assiniboia knew.

Hidden away in a specially designed Vault were the remnants of an elitist, egotistical and advanced American leadership known as the Enclave, seeking to reclaim the land they once considered their own. Further south, in the American Midwest, a splinter group of the Brotherhood of Steel, seeking power and expansion that their old order informally forbid, pushes north and already has engaged in battle with Assiniboia. But now under the leadership of a charismatic, hate filled warmonger, they prepare to break the Dominion, having already laid waste to many towns for the crime of technology possession and for being in the way of "progress." War is on the horizon as the Brotherhood builds up it's forces day by day, while Assiniboia is scrambling to prepare itself after years of complacency, overextension, and internal struggles. It remains a question that keeps the leaders of Assiniboia and the Brotherhood up at night over who was more prepared, and who would survive the oncoming onslaught.

In the Southwest of old Manitoba, an area known for hardy pioneers and bountiful harvests, the small town of Melita seemed so far from all the political maneuvers and military buildup, just another outpost of the expanding Dominion, a trading post to the west and southwest of the sprawling country. It was here that a young man named Patrick Morrison lives, caring for his younger brother and grandparents; a life of hard work, steadfastness and determination in a world that demands that and so much more. But the trials of survival and freedom are about to come, and life in Melita, and Assiniboia, is about to change.

 **Chapter One**

It was tough to be a farmer even in the best of years, Patrick Morrison knew all too well. Weather, insects, rodents, and sheer luck was necessary to even carve a sustenance living from the land, though the land in what was once known as Southwest Manitoba was rich and fertile. It meant that even in years of bad weather, or an early frost or a late spring, he was still able to make more than enough for him, his grandparents and brother with enough to sell for a decent profit to feed the towns nearby.

Patrick nodded at the green shoots of the corn and wheat he was growing. The corn was doing well, having been specially designed and crossbred over decades by scientists at the University of Manitoba, one of the few places that survived the War of 2077. Besides the corn, it also developed the wheat, barley, various vegetables in a small garden closer to the house and hay for the animals that all grew on the farm, along with a variety of medicines, tools and other goods that helped everyone in the wasteland. They may not have solved the world's problems, but they have made the post-apocalypse survivable.

He stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants before turning around and starting to climb up onto his Sleipnir. The massive eight-legged creature was a mutated version of an Old World animal called a "Horse," named after the ancient Norse mythological creature for having the same number of limbs. "Alright Demon," he said, as the beast snorted at the weight suddenly on his back. "Let's head back home."

The mutated creature snorted again, and began a fast walk to the farmstead where the Morrison clan lived, only three miles north from the small town of Melita, built and rebuilt over the original town built almost over 230 years before. Patrick looked to the south in the direction of the town. It was early afternoon, and only a few dark smudges of where the houses and stores of the town could be seen. To the southeast, a long stream of dark smoke on the horizon showed that a steam train was puffing into the station in Melita, with passengers and cargo from the east. Caravan routes, using the old Highway 3 and 83 that met in town as a trading post, was the biggest reason Melita was a town nowadays.

A few minutes away from home, down a worn dusty path from the corn field, Demon stopped, sniffing the air, and shuffling to the side.

"What is it boy?" Patrick asked, finally managing to get the Sleipnir to hold still. The equine held his head straight ahead, his ears rapidly flicking both forward and back to catch the sound of anything nearby.

Patrick followed where his mount was looking, and saw a large black creature move around.

Patrick grimaced. "Damn radgophers," he muttered. The War of 2077, or as some called it, the "Great War," had resulted in the mutation of almost all of the animal species in the world that didn't die out to some degree or another, his Sleipnir being a good example, as were the two headed Brahmin that were in a pasture closer to home. The radgopher, which was about the size of a small dog and with a voracious appetite to match, was a not so good example. Three or four of them could eat entire fields of crop in a day, and the holes and underground passages they made could shift entire houses. If the old books were true, they seemed to be slower than their ancient predecessors, and were still easily frightened. However, they also gained a taste of meat, and when a pack of them was starving, or even for no reason at all, they would try to kill anything to eat.

Patrick wasn't going to let the fact that they would as soon eat him as his crops get in the way of removing them from this life. It was about 75 meters away, far enough away that they wouldn't notice anything dangerous to them. He pulled his hunting rifle off his back, and, aiming carefully, fired.

The bullet flew straight and true, and impacted the radgopher in the side, and killing it instantly. With a grin, Patrick moved Demon closer to the dead rodent, dismounted, and pulled out a knife to cut off the tail. Every tail was worth an Assiniboian Pound, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give up free money.

The rest of the trip back home was uneventful. There were times when the Wasteland would throw almost everything at you, from radgophers to mutated coyotes and once even a yaou gui that meandered its way from the north-east. He checked the rest of the crops, the corn, wheat and barley that had been breed and designed to survive the harsh climate of Assiniboia. Further south in old America, it was almost perpetual summer and desert. Up here, with a glacier two or three kilometers thick covering most everything from the North Pole to about the middle of Lake Winnipeg, the weather was more temperate. There were times when water would freeze in July, but by the same token, there were days when it got to 20 Celsius in December. Perpetual spring or fall, more or less. Planting could happen all year round, as most crops could survive a few weeks of cold or heat.

Patrick brought Demon to a halt near the old house that his great-great-grandfather Morrison had managed to hold after the Great War, and the wave of radiation sickness, death and the brutal nuclear winter that followed. The house itself was a two story wood frame building, but with many patches, additions and subtractions over the years. It had once been painted, back when Patrick was a boy, but now only a few streaks of white were outnumbered by the weather wood. By now, this land had been the hands of the same family for nearly 300 years, and had been productive for almost the full time. Sure, some Morrison's came and went, but there was always a child or two that wished to work the land.

Patrick dismounted from Demon in the barn that was in the same patched, rough shape as the house, locking him in his pen and taking care of the coal black beast. He was careful to make sure the stallion was several strong, sturdy pens away from the mares and colts. Sleipnir's were very possessive of their position in the herd, and Demon, being the alpha male on the farm, would have not hesitated to trample, kick or even kill any of the male colts there.

Satisfied that Demon wasn't going to do such a thing, Patrick returned back to the house, passing the plows, wagons and even the old pre war Fusilier car-turned wagon that had been with the family since before the US Annexation. Tomorrow he would go over the corn harvester, though it was a month or more away before the crop would be ready.

He kicked the dirt off his boots, before pushing open the door with a rusty metal creek, to see May Morrison, his paternal grandmother, cooking over the pre-war stove modified to use wood or coal to cook. She was humming a tune to herself, some song from the old days, long before she had been born.

"Hey Grandma, what's for supper?" Patrick asked, hanging up his hat on a hook and resting his gun on the wall near a kitchen chair.

May Morrison, the epitome of kindly old woman, her face brown and wrinkled from a lifetime of farming and working in the home and garden to help her family survive, turned around to her grandson. "Bighorner stew tonight. Got some fresh cuts from a merchant going by on the 83 to Virden," she finished.

Patrick shook his head. "Bighorner meat is expensive Grandma. Can't afford to buy it all the time."

She chuckled and laughed. Patrick leaned down, and May gave a small kiss on his cheek. "At this rate, you're going to take after your grandfather, haggling and penny pinching. Besides, we have some extra Pounds. It won't make or break us."

Patrick shrugged and smiled. "Alright then. And, speaking of grandpa, where is he?"

"By the radio, playing with it as always," she replied, turning back to the stew. "Better help him get it working."

Patrick nodded, and walked into the living room where Harold Morrison fiddled with the big radio in the corner, a machine cobbled together over the decades as some parts failed and new parts made it better. He was just as tanned and wrinkled as his wife, but still had a lively, energetic and brash energy about him, different from the restrained Patrick. He must of got his calm demeanor from his mother's side…

"What's going on Grandpa?" Patrick asked, taking off his Brahmin skin hat and kicking the dust off his boots.

The 87-year-old man didn't respond, instead continuing to grumble as he fiddled with the ancient electronics. His hearing was starting go, which meant he spent most of his days around the homestead due to his lack of perception around him, which he both hated and enjoyed.

Patrick cleared his throat. "I said, what's going on!" he yelled. The old man turned around at the loud noise.

"No need to yell, Patty," Harold replied, before turning back to the radio. "The DBS is coming in weak, and all I can get is Brandon General Radio right now, all that shit music and propaganda crap they play. But I want the damn news!"

Patrick shrugged his shoulders, walking over to his grandfather. He flipped a switch on the back, the one that turned on the long-range receiver. Like that, the radio went from static to clear broadcast, the tail end of a song from 2054 blaring through.

"I was going to figure that out," the old man grumbled, but his mood lightened as he sat in his old rocking chair and prepared to listen to the news.

"From the Dominion Broadcasting Service in Winnipeg, this is the Six O'Clock news for May 8, 2218. Good evening, I'm Brad Horshaw.

"The leader of the Independent State of Brandon and the Syndicate Crime ring made a radio broadcast today denouncing the most recent assassination attempt on them. The unknown person, known only as 'The Boss' blamed dissident groups in the city-state, aided by Assiniboia in the attempt, the fifty-third, on their life. The Dominion has yet to confirm or deny the rumours.

"Down south in old North Dakota, there are reports that the Brotherhood of Steel is currently undertaking a purge of its medium and high ranking leadership. Elder Ezekiel, in a radio broadcast, claimed that they were 'removing the weak willed, the cowardly, and the Assiniboian agents' from their ranks. A man only known as Abaddon, has been named the General of the Brotherhood of Steel, replacing the previous commander who has, apparently, exiled to the irradiated hell of the Northwest Angle for his failures, which were not elaborated on.

"Prime Minister Richard Hawkson proposed Bill 19 in the Legislative Assembly today. Bill 19 would extend Martial Law in the Districts of Red River America, Devil's Lake, and the Territory of Souris River. Hawkson's Whig Party and Their Majesty's Loyal Opposition Tory Party has already announced their support to the Bill. The leader for the Grits Party, Maurice Klein, denounced the bill, instead saying 'The time is now to give the people of North Dakota the rights they deserve.'

"The Rediboine Trading Company once again is denying rumors that they are engaging in price-rigging schemes and violent attacks on their competition to compete for the lucrative Fargo Supply Run. A spokeswoman of the Rediboine Trading Company says that they 'have turned a new leaf' and welcome 'open and fair competition in the caravan business.' The Assiniboian Department of Agriculture, Industry and Trade declined to comment if they were opening an investigation.

"And that is it for the news this evening. Stay tuned for the weather, and the continuing adventures of 'Captain Mark of the Mounties,' as he faces one of his greatest threats yet: General Buzz Babcock of the American Annexation Force! This is Brad Horshaw, for the Dominion Broadcasting Service."

Patrick turned down the volume of the radio as the familiar ditty of the DBS played, followed by the numbers and forecasts of the weather, which, like usual, was sunny, cool, and no rain predicted, but was almost never right because of the unpredictable weather in Assiniboia. "Do you want to listen to Captain Mark?"

"I do!" a twelve year old boy shouted, running into the room from upstairs, skidding to a stop as he charged into the living room. Patrick smiled as his younger brother excitedly jumped up and down. His long brown hair bounced excitedly as he jumped up and down. A scar on his cheek, one he got after a young sleipnir kicked him when he was younger, was the only other mark on his face that otherwise would have been a copy of Patrick.

"Alright, I'm leaving it on Zach. But right after, we have to turn off the radio to save batteries."

The young boy nodded his head, and sat in front of the radio to listen to his favorite radio show, the pre-war police officer turned into a resistance fighter. While the story was lacking and unrealistic, in Patrick's opinion. How could one person, no matter how motivated or well trained, really change the world? And after being on the air for at least 60 years, and having driven the Americans out of Canada too many times to count only for the dastardly Americans come back time and again, would anyone really believe it all? But it was enough to entertain those that enjoyed the occasional violence that DBS was allowed to broadcast and kids like Zach that wanted something exciting and fun. So Captain Mark stayed on the air.

Patrick returned to the kitchen, where Grandma May was dishing out the stew for four. "They sure do grow up fast, don't they?" she asked, though Patrick wasn't sure if the question was directed at him or to herself.

Patrick didn't have an answer either way, so sat at the table.

May shook her head. "It wasn't that long ago when you were his age, and Zach was but a baby. Back when… your father was still alive."

There was a long silence in the kitchen, interrupted by the snoring from the elder male Morrison, and the excited gasps and cheers of the younger one as he listened to the brave Canadian hero defeat yet another evil villain, and the bubbling pot of food on the wood stove that was slowly stirred to prevent it from burning. Patrick's gaze eventually went to the corner, where a folded Assiniboian flag rested on a shelf, beside a picture of Sergeant Albert Morrison, beaming in the picture while wearing the uniform of the Assiniboian Army when he first joined up, back before the Assiniboian-Brotherhood War broke out.

"He never was found," May whispered. "He may still be out there."

Patrick only remembered a bit about his father, mainly that he was strong and adventurous, having joined the army as soon as he could, and only came back a couple times a year, usually in the summer and Christmas time. The rest of the time, he was on duty with the Princess Patricia's Light Infantry down south, fighting the Brotherhood of Steel. Patrick was five when the radiogram was delivered, the yellowing paper in the frame beside the picture, saying that Albert Morrison was missing in action.

His mother, in another picture just down the shelf with the baby Zach in her arms and a tired smile, and Patrick just to the side, died soon after the news came: a broken heart, Patrick was told.

Patrick looked away from the lone picture of his father and mother, and instead reached over to the hunting rifle, and set to work cleaning the weapon. There was one rule for surviving in the modern world: a working weapon was the only thing that could save you. Sure, radiation may slowly kill you or accident may happen, but more often than not, death came because of a desperate person with nothing to lose or a vicious starving animal.

Patrick worked the oiled cloth up and down the barrel, before taking apart the bolt and oiling it up as well.

It was a simple, repitive. Something you didn't have to think about.

"You can't dwell on the past forever," Grandpa Morrison gruffly stated one day when Patrick was sad after seeing his friend's in town with their families. "You have to remain in the present."

The familiar strains of "O' Assiniboia," the anthem of the Dominion, began to play on the radio, announcing that national programming of the DBS was complete for the day, and now local stations would take over. Zach groaned now that his favorite show was over, but he was running outside before anyone could say anything.

Patrick was about to say something about the radio being left on when it suddenly began making a loud racket.

"BEEEEEZZZZTTTT! BEEEEEZZZZTTTT! BEEEEEZZZZTTTT!" It screamed, sending chills down Patrick's spine, and freezing Zach as he opened the front door

"Oh crap," Patrick exclaimed, standing up and going over the radio. Grandpa Harold was suddenly awake, his grouchiness at being rudely awakened replaced by terror at the Emergency alert.

"This is a Raider attack alert! This is a Raider attack alert!" a panicked voice shouted. "Melita and Area is under hostile attack from raiders from the south and east. All Militiamen are hereby called up by order of Mayor Jamison and the RAMP detachment, and ordered to the town office as soon as possible with all weapons they can muster. All those not in the militia are advised to find a safe, secure location and wait for the all clear!"

As the message began to repeat. Through the thin wood boards and glass, the siren erected in the middle of Melita began to blare. Though it can barely be heard most days, today the wind was right to make it was a muffled roar, enough for everyone to hear it. Patrick was already almost out the door, firmly pulling Zach back inside, and grabbing the service rifle, a copy of the Lee-Enfield .303 that Canada and the British Empire had used in the first two world wars, but now was only to be used on Militia business, along with the leather armour that could deflect sphere and knives, and maybe slow down bullets.

"Patrick! Please be careful!" Grandma May called out, standing on the step.

"I will," Patrick replied, running to the barn while putting on the armor, grabbing an excited Demon from his pen and saddling his eight legged mount. Demon knew that the siren meant danger, and was prepared to race his owner to the rescue.

He slowed down as he got to the front door, with Grandma and Zach Morrison on the step, and Grandpa with the hunting rifle that Patrick had just been cleaning. "You better get to the cellar and wait. Take the radio!"

"Good luck Patty!" Harold shouted.

With that the young man was up on his Sleipnir, and galloping down the dirt path that lead to 83 Highway, and then turned south on the broken pavement and dirt to Melita.

The siren continued to blare over the long distance, and as the miles closed between his farm and the town, the siren grew louder. Occasionally the sound of gun fire, the whinney of the sleipnir, was all that could be heard over it. Patrick grimaced, and urged his eight-legged beast faster.

In fifteen minutes he was at the sign that had the town's name, and in a few minutes after that was winding his way through the streets of the town, past homes and stores and ruins, until he got to gate in a wooden and steel wall around the "citadel" built in the town to protect the citizens in the event of such an emergency. Already several men and women, holding their weapons at the ready, where guarding it. Several noticed Patrick, and raised their weapons.

"Halt!" one of them barked.

"Militia!" Patrick called out to them. Though they were prepared to shoot, they saw that he was alone, and someone they recognized from their monthly drills, and it was easy to see no one was following, so the guards opened the gate in time for Patrick to keep racing right through. Soon after, he was at the Town Hall, an old brick fire station converted long before for the mayor of Melita and his council. Already a large crowd had gathered, most with their weapons and leather armor just like Patrick wore. He swung off his steed, pulling the panting beast behind him.

There was a crowd of sixty men and women or so, half with their own Sleipnir's, half without, crowded around the Mayor and the town's Christian Minister, Reverend Marie Jamison. Two RAMP officers, one mounted and one not, but both with the red painted combat armor of the police force, were organizing the hastily called up defenders.

"They snuck in on us!" one man shouted. "Took the river up!"

"They will pay, them bastards!" a woman replied, and more people shouted their approval, Patrick included.

The mayor tried to shout over the mob, but when it became clear that she couldn't, she put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing whistle, getting everyone's attention.

"Alright Militia, they are just trying to get over the dyke and the highway gates on the river. Some RAMP officers and soldiers in town are already down there holding them off," the mayor said. "But with you here, we will drive them away!"

There was a cheer as the Mayor rallied her town.

"So it's time for us to go and fight to protect our town!" One of the RAMP sergeants, the one of the sleipnir barked, making everyone cheer again. "Alright, move out!"

"And may God protect you, and deliver us a victory," Revered Jamison said.

Everyone cheered, and began to march down to the river.

As Patrick was climbing back up onto demon, Reverend Jamison - she preferred to be known by her religious, not her political title - walked up to Patrick. She was a stately lady, in her sixties and with a head of white hair tied back. She had been a teacher as well as a reverend, and had taught Patrick when he went to school in town, but now served the town as it's elected representative. "I thought you would be back at your farm, Morrison," Melita's leader said..

"If they were coming from the North, then I would have stayed. The radio said from the South, so I thought I could leave Grandma and Grandpa alone," Patrick replied.

The Mayor nodded. "Fair enough. And I know Harold was a crack shot back when he was in the Militia, I'm sure he could plug a few of them. I am happy that you have joined us, and that God will aid us."

Patrick nodded, and the Reverend-Mayor walked away to talk to a distraught woman with three children, calming her down with her words, just as she had rallied the milita a few moments before. After the War of 2077, the different Christian faiths were brought together by the Assiniboian government, to provide faith, healing and other social works that the government couldn't or wouldn't do. Hospitals, schools, free hostels, soup kitchens and a dozen other good works are all done by the Christian ministers sent out after years of being trained in Winnipeg, and are seen as the best doctors and teachers in Assiniboia. With each town having one or two, and they would quickly become prominent leaders, as the mayor of Melita, who didn't grow up here, showed.

Patrick rode demon out of another gate of the Citadel, and down Main Street, which sloped down to the Souris River Valley, giving a weird impression of the buildings on either side either partially sunken into the ground and leaning if you tilted your head just right.

The RAMP officer riding the sleipnir raised his arm. "All riders, follow me!" he then turned to the west along Center street, while the rest of the militia jogged down the street to where they could already see the fighting and smoke near the old bridge in the valley.

"Where are we going?" one of the sleipnir riders asked. "The fight is the other way."

"I know. We are going to try to attack from the side," the sergeant said. "That should catch these raiders by surprise."

Patrick thought it was a good idea, and soon they were turning down Townsend Drive, and from there down to Highway 3, and then to some of the old buildings that once served as a tractor dealership long before tractors were rendered useless without fuel before the War of 2077. The fighting was closer to the intersection of the intersection of 3 and 83, at an old gas station, and the raiders were clearly more focused on the RAMP men, soldiers and militia that they were already fighting with.

The RAMP sergeant outlined his plan. "We just carry along the dyke behind the dealership, and when we get behind the raiders, dismount. Who will hold on to the Sleipnir's?" A couple people reluctantly raised their hands. "Good. Thanks for volunteering," the RAMP sergeant said. "Everyone else, when you dismount, get together to the highway, then start shooting at the raiders. Got it?" Everyone nodded.

"Good. Let's do this!" the sergeant said, and soon everyone was riding past old warehouses, rusty tractors and combines and semi trucks until they were just south of the highway intersection. Everyone dismounted, handing the reins to the volunteers, before quietly jogging closer to the fighting. Screams and bullets and maniacal laughter could be heard.

The twenty or so militiamen flopped onto their bellies on the slope leading up to the highway. The sergeant fished out a whistle from his pocket, counted to himself, before taking a deep breath and blowing into the metal tube, making an earth piercing screech.

"Let's go!" someone shouted, and the militiamen, shouting and yelling like a pack of wolves, ran up the embankment and down the other side.

A few raiders turned around to see what the noise was, and they were shot quickly. A couple bullets cracked past Patrick, making the part time soldier duck. He lifted up his service rifle and fired a few shots at a raider, working the bolt each time. The raider fell down, sprawled out and with red leaking from his body.

Patrick saw another raider, who hadn't noticed that the militiamen were attacking from behind. Patrick lined up for a shot, but the raider was shot in the back by a burst of bullets before he could pull the trigger.

The rest of the raiders began to panic, and many began to run away, heading west to the river and the bridge that crossed it. More of them fell as they were shot - and Patrick thought he may have got one or two of them - but some managed to get away still, and soon the sound of power boats, either powered by oars or by small engines running on whisky or coal or who knew what were roaring south along the river. Some militiamen followed them right to the river, shooting at the bandits as they ran away, while others picked up the wounded raiders to drag them in to be interrogated about what they were doing.

Of the flank attack, only two militiamen were injured, and neither were from the fighting with the raiders.

"Serves those bastards right!" someone shouted.

"That was a small band. Thirty or so. Must have realized they were outnumbered and tried to get out," a woman said.

There was a few minutes of self congratulations, with the RAMP sergeants taking charge of the prisoners, while the volunteers that held the sleipnir's came up to hand their animals back.

"Your creature is a hot headed one," one of them said, handing the reins to Demon back to Patrick.

"Well that's why I called him Demon," Patrick said with a wiry grin. He climbed back onto Demon.

"Stupid bastards, thought they could attack us," one militia man muttered next to Patrick as he got his Sleipnir back as well.

"But why did they? It's been years since there was a raider attack, so why now? And if they ran the moment they saw the militia, then they clearly didn't have a goal to attack Melita. What were they doing?" Patrick wondered aloud.

"Not a clue, but once they started leaving, another group of raiders were coming from the north, and another from the south, and they seemed to have wagons, Fusiliers, and Sleipnirs with them."

"The north?" Patrick repeated, to which the man nodded. "That's where I'm from!" he exclaimed, making some of the men turn from their conversations to Patrick.

Patrick looked to the north, then flicked the reins to get demon walking up the the hill to the top of the valley.

In the distance, to the north, several plumes of black smoke could be seen.

Including one that was about where the Morrison homestead was.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God…" Patrick gasped, using his boots to Demon's stomach to get him moving. The Sleipnir grunted and whinnied, but began to gallop out of town again.

Once Patrick was on the Highway, he looked in the direction of the Morrison farm, and his heart sank. It wasn't a farm near Patrick's, it was clearly the Morrison farm. Thick smoke filled the sky, all coming from the house and barn that he lived and worked in. Patrick urged Demon on, and the Sleipnir, though snorting disapproval at more running, went full out.

Patrick turned down the lane off the highway, galloping his sleipnir straight to the house, and pulled Demon to a stop. Flames licked up the side of the old house and barn, and the sounds of Brahmin bellowing in panic made a shiver run down his back. He began to cough at the thick smoke, just as parts of the house began to fall.

Patrick ran up to the house, braving the heat, and to the cellar door on the side. The cellar was a completely concrete encased structure, so the flames wouldn't reach it and it kept the inside cool. The door was already opened and only thin wisps of smoke curled out, and Patrick went up to it.

"Grandma? Grandpa? Zach?" Patrick called, his voice getting hoarse from the smoke.

"Patrick…" a weak voice called from inside, and Patrick dashed in, down the unlit steps to the basement. He saw his grandmother, bleeding from the leg and from a gash on her head, propped up in the corner. Beside her Harold Morrison lay unmoving, a gun still clutched in his hands, and a few shells littered on the floor. Two bodies of partially clad raiders, though stripped of armour and weapons, were next to the door, and a trail of blood up the stairs showed that someone else had been wounded and unceremoniously dragged out.

"Grandma!" Patrick called, rushing over to her. "Grandma!"

"Patrick… the raiders… they attacked right… after… you left…" she gasped, shaking from the pain and shock at what just happened.

"Where's Zach?" Patrick asked. "Where is my brother?"

Grandma May tried to say something, but instead began coughing. "Oh Patrick… it hurts…"

Patrick snapped out of his grief, and tended to his grandmother. He ripped off a piece of her dress and tied it around her wound, while he reached for a stimpak on the shelf.

"They… took it… all…" May weakly explained. "Medicine, food, bullets…"

Patrick reached back to a secret shelf he had dug out of the concrete and when he was younger and bored, where he kept a few spare stimpaks. He picked one up, and injected it into his grandmother. She gasped at the sudden prick, but calmed down, her breathing getting steadier and the blood clotting up as the chemicals in the medicine quickly worked to stabilize the patient.

"Grandma, we need to get you out of here," Patrick said, the smell of smoke getting worse.

"Yeah… yeah…" she said.

With some maneuvering, Patrick finally got his grandmother on his back. The smoke was getting thick now, and the flames were starting to breach the door to the rest of the house. Patrick took a deep breath, coughing as some smoke entered his lungs, and went up the steps he came in on, and then out onto the grass outside the house. There was a loud groan and crash, and Patrick turned around in time to see the second floor collapse into the first floor.

"It… it's gone. It's all gone. He's gone..." Grandma whispered.

Patrick carefully set his grandma onto the grass. The spots where she had been bleeding weren't now, so the stimpack must have worked.

Patrick went over to grab Demon's reins. The sleipnir was distraught: bellowing and whinnied in distraught and panic at the fire. Patrick could hear the scream and whinney of the other sleipnir's in the barn, and the brahmin too. Soon they were silent, and the smell of burnt meat hung in the air.

"Patrick!" a voice called behind him. "Patrick!"

Patrick turned around as three men and a woman, all with their service rifles drawn, galloped down the lane on their sleipnir's. "Patrick! What happened?"

"The god damn raiders attacked! What do you think?" he screamed out, to the faces of an RAMP sergeant and three other militiamen.

One of the men, the town's medical expert Dr. Burnbank, went over to May Morrison, and hastily checked on her condition. "Pulse… 98, breathing normal… I think she will be okay." He looked around. "Where is Harold?"

Patrick looked back to the house. "He… he was dead already," Patrick said.

"What about Zach?" Another man, the father of a son that was Zach's age.

"The raiders took him," May replied. "They took him… oh my God… they took him!" The doctor turned back to May, and injected some Med-X, to keep her from panicking, which could only result in more medical problems later.

Patrick's blood went cold. "Those raiders… what will they do with him?

The RAMP sergeant reached for his radio. "Whatever it is, it won't be good. I'm putting out a missing persons call, and I hope the Mounties we sent to follow the raiders will find out what happened." The sergeant was soon talking on the radio back to the detachment in Melita.

The doctor and another militiaman helped May up, while the other one hooked his sleipnir to the Fusilier that managed to avoid the fire. "I'm taking her back to the hospital in town," the doctor told Patrick. "You might want to come to, as you can't stay here."

Patrick numbly nodded, and climbed onto Demon again. The sleipnir, normally so hard to control, seemed broken, resigned. The little group walked back to town. The sirens began to wail the all clear.

They got to the hospital, and two nurses and Dr. Burbank quickly took May to a hospital room. Patrick was left in the lobby as she was wheeled away on a creaky, rusty wheeled gurney. Patrick sank into one of the old chairs in the lobby. The talking of doctors and nurses and patients, the beep of medical machines… were nothing to him. Even when the clanging bell of an ambulance raced by, Patrick didn't move. Tears escaped from his eyes, and quiet sobs filled the empty room, as the crushing burden of what just happened fell on him.

"I shouldn't have left…" Patrick moaned to himself, in between sobs. "Why did I leave?"

"Because you thought you had to," a soft voice replied, making Patrick look up. Reverend Jamison stood in front of Patrick, her arms crossed and sorrow on her face. "You wouldn't have known that the attack on Melita was a diversion, as the raiders and God kept that knowledge from us."

"What?" Patrick replied.

"One of the raiders we captured talked, and they told us all what happened. The attack on Melita was a diversion, and other raider groups were going to raid the farms. Said they were looking for young boys and girls, but he died before he would tell us why." The mayor growled, anger on her face. "Five other farms around Melita were hit, and the parents were killed, and the kids are gone."

Patrick shuddered. "But I should still have been here, and stopped them."

"You would have died as well."

"But it's better than letting my family get destroyed without me!"

The mayor shook his head. "No. God has willed it that you survive, for He has a mission for you to do. I know you aren't a religious man, Patrick, but you are alive because he has plans for you. I can't tell you what they are, as they are a mystery to all but Him.

"But, I do know we, Melita, your Grandma, your brother: all of us need you right now. You are one of the bravest and cleverest men in Melita, and I think it is safe to say that you are the best hope we have to find our children again, to find your brother. This town needs your help."

Patrick looked down, to the broken tile floor, and back up to Reverend Jamison. "Why not one of the RAMP officers? Isn't that why they are here?"

Jamison shook her head. "They can't. They are stretched thin as it is, with all the hoopla over North Dakota and the Brotherhood of Steel down south. We're lucky to have two full time officers here in Melita as it is."

Patrick sighed. "Well, I have nothing else to live for…"

"You have your brother, and your Grandmother. Dr. Burbank is a good man, and will do everything he can to help your Grandma. Do it for them. If for no one else, do it for your family."

Patrick rose up, and wiped his eyes and nose. "Alright, I will do it."

Reverend Jamison smiled. "And I have something for you." She reached into the Brahmin skin bag, and pulled out a large object. "The Pip-Boy 3000A. A personal computer for your wrist, one issued to everyone in the standard Vault-Tec vault. I want you to take it."

Patrick carefully took it, looking over the lightweight alloy case that, despite years of use, didn't look worn or rusty. "How did you get it?"

"My family was in Vault H, just south of Winnipeg. It was passed down to the eldest for many years, but I have no children, and I can't think of anyone else better to use it."

Patrick nodded, and slipped the surprisingly light device over his left arm. It fastened itself shut, and turned on, giving a cheerful chime as a classic Vault-Boy appeared on screen, waving to Patrick.

"Unfortunately, the map data our family had been collecting for years on it was lost when a memory device went on it. All that is left is the topographical map. You will have to enter towns and locations in it manually when you arrive in a new place. I did put in the location of a possible place to start looking, Waskada. Raiders overran the town a few months ago, if you remember. The RAMP or Army hasn't been able to get rid of it. Most likely the best place to look."

Patrick nodded, but suddenly the Pip-Boy began to beep. Patrick and the Reverend looked at it, before he chuckled. "Oh right. Occasionally the thing will detect a wireless network and try to download all available information. Usually the news, some government stuff, and advertisements sometimes. Can't edit them, and I can't figure out how to turn it off. Should give you some reading material though."

Patrick nodded, and shook the Reverend's hand. "I just need some supplies and weapons, and I will be on my way." He stood up and walked out the door to the hitching post where Demon was standing, waiting patiently.

"Then Godspeed, Patrick. Godspeed."

Pip-Boy InfoTracker Note #1

 **RobCo/Vault-Tec North InfoTracker System Version 1.3**

Greetings, resident of Vault [INSERT VALUE HERE]! If you are reading this message, you have just been selected into the Canadian Preservation Project (CPP), and are now living in the relative comfort of the best mass preservation projects in the Western World. You may have all heard of Project Safehouse in the United States, and the CPP sets out to do the same thing; protect the best and brightest in Canada to repopulate our great nation.

To make your life here underground comfortable away from whatever chaos and anarchy reigns in the post-[INSERT DISASTER HERE] world, Vault-Tec North, along with our partner's RobCo Industries, provide you with this Pip-Boy 3000. You can find the full 17-volume manual for use and maintenance in your Vault's library system, but this notice only contains the information needed for use of the InfoTracker System by ElectroArtists.

InfoTracker is to be used to keep important information for the user in a safe, secure and accessible place, while allowing Vault leaders to provide important notices and news in a timely and efficient manner, while also protecting you, your family, and your friends from the threats of subversion and sedition. You will never have to worry about losing information, notes, dates or patriotism with this handy program ever again!

When interfaced with a RobCo Unified Operating System equipped computer through the InfoTracker Cable (not included) or wirelessly, your Pip-Boy will be linked to all notes and files present on the computer and any articles that NewsNet, RobCo's computer news network for the Vault System, has for you. Other notes, thanks to the integrated microphone and speaker in your Pip-Boy, can also record and preserve messages with surprising vocal clarity. In addition, InfoTracker can keep track of thousands of messages, so you should never have to worry about forgetting or losing anything ever again!

ElectroArtists guarantees that you will be safe, secure and well informed with InfoTracker, only on the Pip-Boy 3000 by RobCo. Industries.

Version 1.1 Update (9/18/2075): Fixed issue/Removed translation from Chinese to English. Removed seditious words such as "Communist," "Marx" and "Revolution;" To see full list, consult Read-me File #139 and your local authorities for wanting to know what that list is. Removed capabilities to interlink with non-UOS equipped computers. Fixed issue where program would be corrupted when accessing Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System (V.A.T.S.)

Version 1.2 Update (2/4/2076): Fixed issue with losing data when Pip-Boy shuts off. Replaced all seditious words removed before with suitable American replacements.

Version 1.3 Update (8/29/2076): Fixed issue with random shut offs while in use. Added Dirty-Filthy Commie Propaganda-B-Gone program


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Getting some supplies was easy enough. Many of the buildings along Main Street all offered something to sell: food, weapons, clothes. Patrick got a few more magazines for the service rifle, the only gun he had now, along with a new 10mm pistol, a dozen stimpacks and several days worth of canned food and bottles of water and some Nuka Cola, and a leather backpack to carry it all in.

Waskada turned out to be a ride that took most of the night, and Patrick was forced to camp out a mile or two north of the raider camp. The road, an old provincial highway, was terrible, with the pavement having cracked, broken and even disintegrated in the over one hundred years since the War of 2077. The few weeds that survived the post-war cleansing of the world struggled to emerge through the old asphalt, but gave a bit of green to the otherwise dusty expanse.

Sleeping a few hours, Patrick woke up the next morning to see a bright dawn to the east. Opening up his pack, he pulled out some of the Brahmin jerky strips he got, and started chewing on them. After a few bites, and the downing of one of his Nuka Colas (warm and flat, but not that irradiated), he saddled Demon, and continued to the town.

Waskada was once the center of the small oil industry of old Manitoba, with never more than 200 people ever living in the small village. To this day, old rusty steel pump jacks, frozen in time since the last oil ran out in 2059, surrounded the town. The oil boom that kept Waskada alive since the 1950s had long ended, but the arid land, and increasing costs for everything from machinery to fertilizer to fuel made farming even more difficult. Even before War of 2077, only a few stubborn residents remained, trying to etch a living from the soil. However, the war, and the fear of the radiation from Minot, forced the evacuation of much of the town.

After a few years, it became clear that the radiation barely touched the area, so settlers returned once more in 2104, and began farming again. Assiniboia would come in 2169 when most of the old South-western Manitoba agreed to join the new nation. However, its location close to Saskatchewan and North Dakota, and the rich prize of Melita to the west and Metigoshe, the district capital, to the east made Waskada a prime target for raiders. An increasing number of attacks, deaths and destruction ultimately dwindled the population down again, until the final attack the year before captured the last few holdouts and either killed them or made them slaves. But despite the protests from Melita, neither the RAMP nor the Army had sent any forces to deal with the raiders, instead tolerating the loss of another town as the price to pay for peace.

But that peace was now dead.

Patrick was walking straight into the nest of the beast, to find his brother and the other kids. He was the only one to do it, he knew, because after him, would anyone else care enough, or have the drive to do it? Patrick knew the answer, and he didn't like it.

Tying Demon to a pole that used to carry power lines a mile north of the town, Patrick pulled out his new 10mm pistol and slipped it into it's holster on his belt, slung his service rifle off his back and chambered a round, and made sure the leather armor was on right. It was risky, being the only person walking into a hornets nest. But at least he knew how to hunt, years with Grandpa having taught him all he needed to hunt animals, along with a few years shooting in the militia shooting at targets. And humans, or at least raiders, are simply two legged animals. Ones that may breath and talk like Patrick, but were animals. Animals that he could hunt to extinction.

So he told himself.

He slowly crept toward Waskada. The old trees in the town that were planted by the first pioneers were still standing despite the passage of time and nuclear war, and even were still struggling to force some rusty red-green leaves to grow. It was always amazing how resilient the world can be, and as a farmer, Patrick knew that all too well.

His limited Militia training taught him that the high ground and cover was best, but raiders didn't care for tactics, or any strategy but brute force. That would give him an advantage.

As he came closer, he could hear laughing and shouting. He paused and crouched low into the thick folliage, and carefully studied his surroundings.

Straight south of him from in the line of old trees was a large red brick building with stucco highlights, which looked like a school complete with the two story gymnasium on the north end. It looked almost exactly like the school he had gone to in Melita, only the one in his hometown was a bit larger for more kids when it was built before the War of 2077. It was, most likely, the one building in the town to be large enough to hold most of the raiders, with the exception of the old ice rink, which, if his map was right, was on the other end of town.

He carefully made his way closer to the row of dead trees, and he could tell that the school was, indeed, the raider base. Tents of patched cloth and animal skins filled the old baseball field, while the main building itself had graffiti in paint and what Patrick was sure was dried blood all over it, all of which screamed "We are Badass, and We Will Kill You!" A half dozen or so men and women were around the buildings, all with some form of weapon, be it spear, sledgehammer, axe or the few lucky enough to have guns.

Patrick at last made it up to the closest tree, and even from there, he could hear bits of conversation.

"So, the fucking kids are dealt with… got a few, sent the rest on," one raider, wearing a patchwork of armor bragged.

"Yeah, that was a fucking brilliant idea… the militia wasn't a problem at all," a female raider whose top part didn't do much to cover her up - and Patrick had no idea how she could live in Assiniboia's weather - boasted to others.

Patrick scowled. He was too late to find all the kids. He carefully aimed the rifle toward the raiders closest to him, but didn't fire yet.

One of the raiders took out a thing out of his pocket, and put it up to his lips before giving a sharp inhale, and then a giggly sort of laughter. "Shit… this Jet is good stuff!" one of the raiders bubbled. "I feel like I'm flying…"

Another raider grabbed a small canister of what must have been this new drug, and inhaled it herself. "Oooooooohhhh… yeah…."

Patrick nodded to himself. Excellent, they would get drugged up enough that they shouldn't even notice that they were dead, if it came to that.

One of the raiders, the one that didn't take the Jet, stood up. "You fucking students. Why you get hooked on that shit? Whiskey and booze is good enough to get buzzed."

The first Jet user giggled. "Oh c'mon, you shithead. Don't lie to me, you flew before. C'mon, do it again!" He got up, and forcefully pushed his way to the tee-toller. "Take it!"

"Fuck off!" the second raider shouted, shoving the Jet addicted raider to the ground. He was sort of dazed, but before he could jump up, it seemed as if his body began to sag, and he resigned himself to laying on the ground. Must have been the after-effects of the drug, Patrick thought.

The raider just shook his head, and walked to the tree line, almost straight at Patrick. He ducked deeper into the bushes, and watched as the raider, with only a knife on his belt, and a whiskey bottle in his hand walked toward him, unsteadily making his way over the dead grass and junk that had piled up in the 141 years since grass grew long and green.

The raider stopped a few feet away from Patrick, turned toward a tree, and pulled down his pants to relieve himself. Patrick grinned, and took the chance, jumping up behind the raider. He clamped his free hand over the raider, and stuck the pistol to the brain of the raider.

The raider gasped, and tried to swear, but Patrick held onto him too tightly. The raider was so surprised that a foul smell started to waft up.

"Okay, bastard. I'm only going to say this once, so listen," Patrick said, doing his best impression of what he would think someone would say in this situation, after listening to all those commando plays and Captain Mark stories. "I'm looking for some kids that were taken from Melita yesterday. Now, you tell me what happened to them, and you can keep your head. If you try to scream for help, or don't help, I'll send you to whatever God or spirit or volleyball you worship." Patrick pulled his hand from the mouth of the raider. "Your choice." Patrick slowly removed his hand

"I… I… wasn't part of the attack," the raider gasped. "I was told… to… stay here and…"

"I don't care," Patrick scowled. "I only want to know where the kids went."

The raider gulped. "They were split up; some we kept, some we had to send to this fucker from… Branson? Brantford?"

"Brandon?" Patrick offered.

The raider nodded. "Yeah, Brandon. The Syndie guys up there and that. They took half the kids, the best ones that they wanted. Paid us with drugs and booze and shit." The raider was calming down a bit now. "Some we sent to this place down south, no idea what it's called though. The rest are locked up in the big house over there. I think, last I know. Trained to join us, or die. That's how we are all here, you know."

Patrick loosened his grip on the raider and his pistol dropped when he heard that, knowing how cruel the raiders would treat the kids to make them join. It was just long enough for the raider to try to reach for his knife, turn around and take a swing at Patrick with a loud grunt. The edge of the knife caught the leather armor, but didn't go through. As the drunk, uncoordinated raider tried to swing again, Patrick, in shock at the sudden attack, quickly levelled his pistol at the raider, and taking a breath and bracing himself, looking away to only keep the raider in the corner of his eye, pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, all three impacting the skull of his attacker. Blood, brains and bone flew out and splattered over the trees behind him, and the man crumpled to the ground, dead.

Patrick stared at the body of the raider as he fell. Patrick could almost feel the jerky and cola he consumed early trying to force his way up. He had killed animals before, some to get rid of nuisances, some to butcher to feed his family, and he shot at raiders when in the militia.

But this… this radier… this person… was just a few feet away when he killed them.

Sure, the raider had tried to kill him, but at the same time they were a human...

"What the fuck?" A voice shouted on the other side of the tree line. Patrick snapped out of it, and looked up to see one of the drugged raiders, the woman, look over, and the two made eye contact.

"Oh crap," Patrick said, his voice breaking in terror, as the female raider started screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Intruders, fellow students!" the raider barked out, trying to pull out her spear. "Let's make Principal happy!" Patrick couldn't afford to let them all gang up on him, so he pulled up his twelve shot pistol, and fired four more shots at the raider. Two missed, one hit the left leg, and the last shot impacted the chest with a brutal, wet slap. With a groan, the raider fell over.

But now more were coming. Patrick wouldn't have time to reload his pistol, so he quickly slammed it in his holster, and grabbed his service rifle. He lifted it up, and braced it on his shoulder as two more raiders, one guy with a spear and a girl with a pistol, came charging up to Patrick.

Patrick fired at the gun wielder first, as she would be the more dangerous threat. The first bullet cracked past her head, but the raider didn't even duck. Patrick quickly worked the bolt, and fired again. This time the bullet caught that raider on her side, and she feel down, screaming bloody murder as her guts spilled out, but she managed to get a shot off before she fell. It did hit Patrick, but it only went through the front of leather armor, barely skimmed his shirt, and out the back, without hurting him at all.

The spearman threw his spear, which harmlessly landed a couple feet to the left of Patrick after he slide to the right. As the raider tried to get his fallen comrades gun, Patrick fired and missed, but made the raider stop and duck for cover before reaching the pistol. Using the bolt and ejecting the old case to let a new bullet into the chamber, Patrick fired again. It also missed, but not before the raider got the pistol. Patrick ducked behind an old picnic table that he then pulled onto its side to protect himself as the raider began to fire the full clip of bullets in the 10mm pistol into the wood, making splinters flying around but no bullets got through. Working the bolt again with his free hand as best as he could, this time Patrick, looking over the edge of the table, took aim as the raider's gun clicked empty, fired, and the raider went down with a gasp.

Patrick paused for a moment, and looked around. In less than three minutes, he had already killed three people. Of course, they were chem indulging, homicidal murderers that wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but it still lives that he had taken...

He couldn't dwell on it. Not now. Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled out a charger clip with five rounds on it, and pushed the five bullets in. He pocketed charge to hand load later. He then also reloaded his 10mm pistol with a magazine from another pcoket. But having all the bullets he could when he was going to charge into enemy territory was better than having to do it when he was going to be in trouble.

He pushed the table down, before running over to the spot where the other raiders had been. Just as he reached the spot, bullets began impacting the ground and whizzed through the air, signalling that, no, Patrick wasn't done yet.

He crouched low behind a large log that had been used as a bench, and carefully looking up, he could see three raiders, two with guns and the third with an axe, approaching his spot.

"Come out, you fucker!" one shouted, aiming his hunting rifle where Patrick was. "Not gonna put up with this bull…"

Three bullets from the 10mm when he got close enough through his chest stopped the loud mouth in mid-sentence.

Well, turns out you are, Patrick thought

The two other raiders dashed right at Patrick, the one firing his weapon haphazardly. However, when he pulled the trigger, and nothing came out, the raider slowed down to a pause while struggling to reload it. Before he could even get the second bullet in, Patrick had fired four more shots from his pistol, with three hitting the raider in the leg, and and knocked the raider down and out of the fight.

An axe crashed through the dead wood less than a foot away from Patrick's face, making Patrick drop his pistol. "Heeeere's Johnny!" the raider called out, as he tried to pull the axe out of the wood.

Patrick grabbed hold of the axe, and, when the raider had lost his balance trying pull on it, the Assiniboian kicked the log at the raider, crashing into the raider's legs and knocking him down. Patrick jumped up, and aimed his rifle it at the raider's head.

"Holy shit man!" the raider cried out, panic and fear in his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

"One really pissed off brother," Patrick replied, and fired the gun, making the raider lay still with the back of head exploded on the ground.

Patrick paused, and sighed, chambering another round into his rifle. He picked his pistol up, and started reloading it. With that, he looked up at the school, and took a deep breath. The rest of the raiders must be in there. A couple bullets fired from a window at Patrick seemed to confirm it.

He quickly ran up to the school, ducking behind tents and benches and even the hulk of an old car that had been dragged to this spot year ago and left until he managed to get to the door to what was the library as bullets flew through the air. One caught Patrick's sleeve, another just past his head, but none hit him. Patrick started to breath heavily, but he covered his mouth to prevent anyone from hearing him.

"Where the fuck did he go?" a raider cried out, Patrick only able to hear her because of a broken window. Now Patrick stopped breathing all together.

"I dunno, he must have went around front!" another raider shouted back. "Go see!"

Patrick let himself breathe again as two sets of footsteps ran away. He grabbed the door handle, and carefully opened it, and slid inside, hoping to not attract any more attention. He noticed a thin string across the front door, and it must have been attached to something loud or dangerous, so he did his best to avoid the tripwire. He stepped over it, and made sure his back foot didn't catch it either.

Inside, Patrick began creeping through the halls. He could hear a bunch of talking, some chains clink, and a gunshot, followed by a scream that suddenly went silent.

"I've fucking had it with these useless Students!" one deep voice bellowed. "Kill that fucking Assie all ready, or you all are in Detention!"

"Yes Principal!" a couple of clearly scared raiders shouted back, before a bunch of heavy, running footsteps raced from the gym.

Patrick's blood ran cold as he realized that they were talking about him. He dashed to the side, where a janitor's closet stood, and hid inside. The door was broken, but if he could hide long enough to allow them to split up…

Four racing footfalls echoed through the empty hallway, and he saw two of the raiders run by to the Library and outside, while the other two ran the other way to the main entrance on the south side of the school. Patrick took a short sigh of relief, and slipped out of the closet. Now that they were split up, maybe he could deal with both separately, though only once he found the kids. And maybe this "Principal" guy could help with that.

Patrick quietly walked over the broken linoleum tiles and past the mounds of junk and stuff that the raiders had piled everywhere. Various classrooms all had old mattresses or sleeping bags on the floor, which must have been where the raiders slept. Another room had a bunch of computers, none of which had the familiar glowing screens that showed them working. Patrick looked out the closest door to see a clear hallway, and he crept as quietly as he could down the hall, past more classrooms until he reached the large double doors that lead to the gym.

He carefully glanced through one of the doors, which had fallen off one of its hinges after years of misuse, and noticed one particularly strong, well armoured and heavily armed raider pacing about, growling. That must have been Principal, and he wore a dirty old tie and business jacket much like a principal would have in the school back over a hundred years ago. One dead raider with chains around him was lying in a large pool of blood in front of a nice couch, which must have been the "throne" for Principal.

Patrick grinned, picking up his rifle. One bullet to the head, that was all that was needed. If this guy is out of the picture, then finding the kids should be easy. He carefully aimed, leading Principal until right…

…there.

Patrick pulled the trigger, and the gun roared out as a bullet went flying. But the moment that Patrick picked to fire the gun, Principal had just bent down to look at the dead raider from before and picked up one of those Jet canisters, and the bullet impacted the cinder block walls with peeling white paint harmlessly. He suddenly stood up, and looked to where the bullet had come from.

"You fucking Assie!" he roared out, quickly inhaling the Jet and pulling out a massive, hand made sword from the bumper of a Old World car. The Principal charged straight at Patrick, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Patrick tried to get his gun up in time to fire again, but the onrushing wall of drugged up muscle and anger got to Patrick first, and he swung the sword, crashing through the doors, busting the broken one off the last hinge and crashing to the wall.

Patrick was knocked onto his back from the force of the crash, and while the raider's sword was embedded in the door, Patrick took the moment to run.

"You can't fucking run from me, you bastard!" Principal screamed yanking the sword from the door, chasing down Patrick as fast as he could

Patrick dashed back into the computer room, and slid under one of the tables with computers on it. Principal came roaring in, and smashed the sword into the nearest desk. Wood, metal and broken vacuum tubes and electronics splintered and crashed to the floor as Patrick kept silent under another desk on the other side.

"Come out you fucker!" he shouted, crunching over the broken tiles, glass and metal. "You're a bad person, hurting my students, and you need to go to Detention!"

Patrick took a deep breath, and reached for his 10mm pistol. He pulled it out of his holster and aimed it at the raider's foot. When he was close enough, Patrick pulled the trigger. The blast was ear shatteringly loud under the desk, but the bullet flew straight and true, impacting Principal above the ankle. The sickening crunch of bone and flesh, as well as the scream of pain that the raider gave out gave Patrick all the notice he needed that it worked. He slid out the opposite side and aimed the pistol at the raider, pulling the trigger twice more into Principal's chest, making the maniac gasp. Blood flowed from the wound and from his mouth, before he fell face first to the floor, dead.

Patrick took a moment, leaning against the desk to catch his breath, the adrenaline that had been racing through his system gone. He eventually got up, stretching and groaning as his body complained at everything he put it through, before spent the next fifteen minutes looking through the school, trying to avoid the other "students", for any sign of the kids. However it was clear that there was no sight of any of the kids here, much to Patrick's disappointment. He knew he couldn't look too hard yet, as dozens more raiders had to be lurking about, and if he stumbled on a group of them when distracted, he was as good as dead.

Patrick worked his way back to the entrance of the school, and he noticed a couple raiders just standing around. One was carefully smoking a cigarette, which was either one of the ridiculously expensive Pre-War ones, or one of Assiniboia's attempts at a substitute. Judging from the harsh smell, it was one of the newer ones.

"So this guy just comes in and kills a bunch of us? Is he like an elite Rampy guy or something? One of those Dragoons they talk so much about?" the second raider asked the smoking raider.

"Hell if I know. Of course he won't be able to deal with me," the smoking raider said, flipping a well-used combat knife in the air and catching the handle.

The second raider rolled his eyes. "Why do you use a knife? C'mon, a gun is so much better at killing things!"

Patrick thought of the irony before lifting up his 10mm pistol and firing twice at the chest of the second raider making him cry out and fall over. The smoking raider dropped his cigarette, and spinning around and grabbing, quickly threw the knife in his hand where the bullets came from. The knife impacted an old corkboard that was just a few inches from where Patrick was, making him duck, and slide further down the wall.

The raider pulled another knife from his belt and ran over to where he threw his first knife, and looked around the corner. The raider came face to face to a pistol pointed at his head.

"Yeah, why do you bring a knife to a gunfight?" Patrick asked, motioning with his other hand to drop his weapon

The raider dropped the knife and raised his hands, surprise and shock on his face.

"Alright, quick question, and you can go. Do anything stupid, your brains are all over the wall, got it?" The raider slowly nodded his head. "Alright, where are the kids you took?"

The raider swallowed deeply "We split 'em up. Some went down to our bigger camp in North Dakota, some went to Brandon, some went to this place that they called… uhh… Steel, I think? Don't know where it is, some weird guys in big metal armor gave us guns and shit to get the kids."

Patrick growled. "Alright, know which way did a boy named Zach go?"

The raider shook his head. "No clue. No one keeps track of the names."

Patrick growled again. "Fine, thanks for your help." Patrick flipped the gun in his hand and winding up and smashing the butt of the gun into the raider's skull, knocking him out cold, a trickle of blood oozing out of the cut on his head. It was better than killing him, Patrick thought to himself. Just a concussion, just unconscious...

After the raider crumpled to the floor, Patrick walked to the front door and glanced through the cracked glass doors. He could see some raiders had fairly new and well-maintained pistols and shotguns, and all with combat knives or other melee weapons, and two carried the pre-war R91 American assault rifle.

"That's a rare gun up here," Patrick thought to himself. He had only ever heard of those kind of guns, and only saw a picture drawn in a book once. The few that would even be working in Assiniboia would all have been from Fort Headingly, or scattered with the few military patrols that were set up to scout for "rebels" and "communists" the day the bombs fell. But they looked too new, like they had been just made or found in a Vault.

Patrick shook his head. No way he was going out that way. He will just have to go back the other way.

Patrick crept carefully along another hallway before he got close to the Library doors he walked through before. It looked like no one else was around, so he walked through the old library back out. It looked all clear, but then his boot caught the wire he avoided before and forgot about, and with a loud snap, it broke in half.

KLANG KLANG KLANG KLANG! A bunch of bells off to the side went off. Patrick gasped as he looked down to see the tripwire.

Patrick looked around in panic, realizing that he would have just announced where he was to all the raiders around the old school. Though he had managed to clear most of the back playground, he had no idea how many raiders will be charging around the bend…

Patrick looked around, before noticed the old glass and iron frame of a greenhouse on the side of the tall brick wall of the gym. It was the best hiding place he could think of, and he quickly ducked inside amongst the decades of rotted plants and tools.

"What the fuck was that?" one of the raiders with the assault rifle shouted, coming around the south side of the building with four other raiders in tow.

"The alarms, Teacher," another replied. "Someone must have got in."

"Well, get in there and find out what that was!" the one with the assault rifle, clearly the leader of this group, barked back, pointing his gun to the Library door.

Patrick nearly yipped in terror as two of the raiders, both with long machetes, trooped through the school, looking for the intruder, not knowing he had already been inside, and was now watching them from only a few feet away.

His relief was short lived as one of the raiders raced back to the assault rifle-toting raider. "Principal is dead, Teacher!"

The assault rifle raider stood in shock. "Fuck, how did that happen?"

"Shot to death, but we have no idea who would have had the balls for that."

Teacher scowled. "Fine. As of this moment, I'm taking the title of Principal, and we are going to find whoever the fuck is doing this. And get those kids out of this fucking town!"

"Where to, Teac… I mean Principal?"

"I don't fucking care! Saskatchewan, Rugby, hell shove them up your ass… just get them moving out of here!"

Patrick frowned as the raiders spread out, quickly trying to fulfill the new orders they had just received. Patrick knew he had to stop them, but he wasn't going to be able to do it with the leader standing right in front of him…

"Hey, what the fuck are you doing?" another raider came up. It was another guy with an assault rifle. "What makes you think you can make yourself Principal? You know the other guy was going to make me next in line."

"As if, you fucker. Why did you think you were put in charge of the attack on Melita? Because you are a fucking coward, running at the first sign of resistance."

"Coward? Coward?" the second raider shouted. "I'll fucking show you coward!"

He lifted his assault rifle and flipped off the safety, firing his gun on full auto straight into the self-proclaimed leaders body. Twenty-four .556 rounds impacted his chest which exploded into a mess of blood and flesh. The first raider looked shocked as his body shuddered, then fell over. The impact with the ground forced the raider's finger to pull the trigger, and that assault rifle emptied its clip of twenty-four bullets, all of which was aimed at the greenhouse that Patrick was hiding in. Pottery, glass and dirt shattered and exploded around Patrick, who ducked down as low as possible.

"Good fucking riddance," the second raider said, walking over to his now dead rival. He picked up the other assault rifle, and examined it.

Patrick was shaken, but uninjured, much to his surprise. It seemed that maybe Reverend Jamison was right, and God had taken a liking to him. But his mind clicked into action, realizing that the raider was now vulnerable with two unloaded R91's in his hand.

Grabbing his pistol, Patrick jumped up and fired three times at the raider's stomach and leg. The raider screamed out loud and fell, dropping the guns as he clutched his stomach.

Patrick jumped out of the greenhouse and stood up over the fatally wounded raider. "Well, your reign as leader of this band of raiders isn't going to last too long."

The raider looked up, blood already starting to run out of his mouth. "Y-you… were the one that killed Principal?"

Patrick shrugged. "If that's what you call him, yeah. I killed him. Now, listen to me. I've already killed nearly a half-dozen of you guys already, and I just want to know one thing; where are the kids that you took?"

The raider spit blood at Patrick. "Why the fuck should I tell you? You've already killed me, destroyed the one family I had, vicious and brutal and all. And you want me to help you now? Fuck off, Assie. You're not much better than us anyway."

With that last statement, the raider fell backwards, his eyes rolling up in his head and he died.

Patrick stared at the body for a few minutes. Was he really as bad as these raiders? Sure, he killed a bunch of them, but they would be doing the same thing to him if they saw him, right?

Patrick forced himself to look away, and walked back into the school. Before he did, however, he reached down and picked up one of the assault rifles, and scavenged the bodies of the two for some bullets. The extra firepower would come in handy.

He tried to push the thought of how he killed them all in cold blood out of his mind, and for a moment, he thought he might be able to do it.

As Patrick entered the Library, he could hear a couple raiders running from the other direction.

"Principal! Principal! We need a key for the… What the fuck?"

"What, that wasn't the Principal, they were just Teachers," the second raider replied.

"The Principal was killed, and my Teacher said he was next in line."

"Fuck off! My teacher said he was next in line."

"Well, they are dead now… so who is next in line?"

"Uh… I don't know. I am!" the second raider said, pounding his chest.

"Fuck off, you couldn't lead a Brahmin to water," the first raider said.

The second raider swung a fist into the jaw of the first raider. "I'm going to make you my bitch when this is done for not listening to me!"

Patrick crept away as the two raiders began fighting, and into the school again. He needed that key the first raider mentioned to unlock wherever the kids were, so it must have been in the school. Not a single person was left, all the other raiders must have left, though cries, gunshots and screams of the dead and dying must have meant that the raider band was tearing itself apart as the leadership was incapacitated.

Patrick wandered through the school, looking in classrooms of until he got back to the body of the Principal in the computer room. However, there wasn't any keys on him, so Patrick had to go look some more, much to his disappointment. He ended up back in the gym where the Principal had made his throne room. He looked around, but didn't see a key, before he noticed an old ham radio with a microphone and headset

Patrick walked up to it, and put on the headset. All he could hear was static, so he carefully began to twist the knob. Garbled words gave way to the ABC broadcast, just another song at the moment. He twisted the knob a bit further until he reached a channel with no static, but also no voices. Patrick carefully pushed the button on the microphone.

"Hello? Anyone on this channel?

There was a moment of commotion, then a loud squeal. "Who the hell is this? This is official Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police Radio Channel, if you are not authorized…"

"My name is Patrick, and I'm in the Waskada School. Raiders are tearing themselves apart right now because I killed their leader. I'm looking for the kids that were taken from Melita and area the other day, and I could use some help."

There was a silence on the end. "Okay, are you high on that Jet shit right now? Now get off this channel…"

"Listen, I need some help…"

"Get the hell off this channel right now!"

"Constable, what the hell are you screaming about?" a new voice chimed in.

"Some retard is blocking this channel, claiming he's killed the Principal of the gang in Waskada, and that a bunch of kids are kidnapped and stuff like that."

There was a silence. "This is Lieutenant Joseph from the Melita RAMP Detachment. Please tell me your full name."

"Patrick Morrison," Patrick replied.

"Well Goddamn. I swore when Mayor Jamison told you to go do this that you would be dead by now. Where are you?"

"I'm in the old Waskada School, in the gym. The raiders are killing each other right now because I killed the leaders and the ones next in line. Some of the kids are still here though, according to a few I interrogated."

"Sir, you don't actually believe this guy, do you?"

Lieutenant Joseph, after a moment cleared his throat. "Patrick, get out of there. Head north along the highway until you meet me. I'll be there as soon as possible. Constable, get a radiogram to Metigoshe, and tell him it's urgent; prepare to send forces to Waskada. Direct the reply to my personal radio. Joseph out."

Before the dispatcher could argue, Patrick turned off the radio. He stepped back over the Principal, and walked out of the school. Not a soul stopped him, though gunshots and screams told Patrick that nobody was going to worry about a better dressed Assiniboian leaving the area. Patrick walked out of the town just before a massive explosion erupted; the old grain elevator, once standing tall over the town even in a dilapidated state, was now burning and sending thick clouds of black smoke high into the sky. Patrick smiled, knowing that he was pretty much responsible for that. He still didn't know where the kids were, but the RAMP should be able to help with that.

Pip-Boy 3000 InfoTracker Note #3223

NewsNet Update; September 6, 2217

Raiders Attack Small Town, No Response from Winnipeg (ABC News)

MELITA: Raiders have reportedly taken over the small town of Waskada, only a few short miles from one of the largest outposts for Assiniboia in pre-war south-western Manitoba and the town of Metigoshe, administrative center of the district by the same name. Waskada, a farming settlement of about 100 people, was brutally attacked, and all the inhabitants were either killed or forced to flee. Calls for help by both towns for either Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police or Army of Assiniboia help was sent to Winnipeg. However, as of reporting time neither the Department of Defense or the Interior has not said if they will help or not. Previous raider attacks on this area have not been seen by the RAMP or the Army to warrant a larger force to be sent out, and ABC News defense analyst Kevin Murdock says that the threat from the Brotherhood of Steel near Fargo is of greater concern.

Mayor Lloyd Jamison of Melita, speaking to ABC reporters by radio, said that, while his town is safe with walls and a strong militia, it will be dangerous for farmers in the area to work on their land, and the dangers to trading caravans, river boats on the Souris River and the weekly Unified Assiniboian Railroad train could serve to isolate the town.

"If we don't get some help soon, dozens of innocent lives could be lost. Melita can defend itself if need be, but we can't take back Waskada. And until Waskada is secure, nothing in this area will be."

This attack has been the latest in a string of raider attacks on the southern border of Assiniboia, but it is the first time that an entire town was taken. We have reached out to the RAMP and the Army for an interview, but there has been no response by press-time.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

It was a short hour for Patrick and Demon clopping along the ruins of the old Highway north from Waskada. The sun was starting to set as the sleipnir and its rider continued traveling, almost reaching the old Number 3 highway when the drum of hoofbeats in the distance echoed over the quiet, windswept plains. Patrick looked to the west to see five riders, all in the red painted combat armor and brown Stetsons of the RAMP. Patrick grinned as the galloping Sleipnirs at last turned the corner and slowed down as the approached Patrick.

"Morrison!" the leading officer shouted, as they came to a halt right in front of Patrick and Demon. Patrick pulled on the reins, making the Sleipnir stop, snorting at the interruption. The five RAMP men pulled up in front of Patrick, with the leading officer dismounting. Patrick followed suit, pulling Demon behind him by the reins. From the little bit that Patrick knew, this was Lieutenant Joseph (he refused to let anyone know if it was his first or last name, and after years, people have stopped asking), the highest ranking officer in the Melita Detachment. He wasn't overly tall, but his broad shoulders and confident stride were enough to intimidate those that didn't know him. For those that did, he was a friendly guy, known for having a few beers off duty in the town bar. He hadn't been in Melita for more than a year, but he was already respected and looked up to.

"Morrison, I don't even know where to start with you," Joseph started, making Patrick's smile fall. "Charging head on into a dangerous raider encampment without aid, with just a pistol and a bolt action rifle, and somehow managing to defeat the toughest baddy in the district. I don't know if I should arrest you for public endangerment or pin a medal on you." The Lieutenant smiled though, and clapped Patrick on the shoulder. "But I know I will get you a drink when we are done."

Patrick smiled again, but the smile ended when he thought back to Waskada. "I was unable to find the kids though. They might be in the old rink or some nearby farm, but I didn't have time to figure that out. For all I know, the raiders got them out of the town."

The Lieutenant nodded. "We can solve that problem. For now, let's head back to Waskada and see what you actually did."

Patrick and Lieutenant Joseph swung back up on their animals and the small band trotted off back to the south. For the longest time, wind going through the wire between broken hydro poles, the crunch of disintegrated pavement and the snorts and nickers of the equines were the only sounds that filled the silence.

"Shame about your Grandfather, Patrick," Joseph at last said, looking over to the other rider. "For the little I knew, he was a good man."

Patrick was silent, but it kind of comforted him that, even if Harold Morrison was starting to get grumpy and senile in his old age, that he was still well respected by the community. It gave Patrick something to think about as the half dozen men continued toward the burning wreckage of Waskada.

The smell of burning wood, the odour of gunpowder and the stench of blood hung over the ruins of Waskada as the group of men approached. The sun was starting to set in the west as Patrick and the RAMP members finally arrived in the town. They split up, with two officers going to check the west side of the town, two more the south near the old hundred acre park, and Patrick and Lieutenant Joseph searched the School and northern part of the town. They guided their sleipnir's through the overgrown field that was the camp for the raiders that had set up in Waskada until they got to an old railing and tied their animals up there. On foot they continued through the playground, sidestepping the bodies that had been left by Patrick when he first barged his way into the school.

"I still can't believe you took on all these guys yourself," Lieutenant Joseph said, looking at the body of a raider.

"Most of them were drugged up or drunk," Patrick replied. But he remembered the couple close calls they had. Had then been an inch off...

As they got to the Library door, Patrick pulled out his 10mm pistol while the RAMP officer unholstered his standard issue Winnipeg Armoury .44 magnum revolver, the WAR79. With the number of surviving weapons from the Pre-War era decreasing with every year, the Dominion set about to design and build their own firearms a few decades ago. While the 10mm Patrick had was fairly common in the pre-War world and there seemed to be millions of them all over, more powerful weapons were being manufactured from scratch in Winnipeg for the military and personal use. The service rifle Patrick had was one of them.

The two men walked through the school again, but only the bodies of the dead that Patrick dealt with earlier were there. Lieutenant Joseph was surprised at how much Patrick had done by himself.

"I can't believe you did this Patrick," Lieutenant Joseph said again. "Frankly, I have a feeling you would make an excellent Dragoon for the RAMP," the lieutenant said as he rolled over the stiff and cold corpse of the Principal.

"I guess it was adrenaline or something." Patrick replied as he went through some boxes on the other side of the room looking for information on where the kids went. "Wanting to get Zach back might be a reason as well."

Lieutenant Joseph chuckled, before his radio crackled to life. He pulled it off his belt and began talking in it, before giving a few orders, and hanging it back on his hip.

"We found about twenty kids in the basement of one of the houses. Care to join me and we will see if we can find your brother?"

Patrick nodded, and walked with Lieutenant Joseph out of the school and down to the house that the other RAMP said the kids were in. Two of the members were standing guard over the yard that the kids were now huddled in, while the other two were writing down names and where they were from.

"We have Oak Lake, Metigoshe, Saskatchewan Territory, Melita, and a half dozen other places," one officer said as Patrick and the Lieutenant showed up. "Seems to be no rhyme or reason for it though, as why they are all mixed up."

"These kids were the raiders payment for what the did," Patrick said, looking over them. "Zach? Zach, are you here?"

The officer flipped through his book, and once again. "Sorry, no one by that name is here."

Patrick stopped, staring at the officer. "What?"

The RAMP member shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe they are in another house, or they have been carted off. I'm really sorry."

Patrick continued staring at the officer, or rather through him. All that work, and Zach wasn't here.

Patrick's knees buckled, and he nearly fell to the ground. All that work, putting his life on the line… and Zach was gone. And he couldn't do anything about it.

One little kid, a boy not even quite 10 and in dusty, patched clothes, slowly came up to Patrick. "Uh, excuse me, sir," he started, nervously shuffling on his feet. "Um, I just wanted to thank you for getting rid of those bandits."

Patrick slowly looked up into the bright blue eyes of the young boy, and forced a smile. "Thanks."

"There were a bunch of guys that came here last night, caravans. Some were dressed in fancy suits, while others were in those big metal suits," the boy continued. "Maybe your brother went with them?"

Lieutenant Joseph turned around and walked over to the boy and Patrick. "Excuse me, what did you say?"

"Some big men in black suits with those ties came here yesterday, picked out a bunch of us, then a man in big purple robes with two metal giants. They seemed like robots, but they talked like people. Some other people may have come, but I don't know."

The RAMP officer grimaced when he heard that. "As if this wasn't hard enough, I think those Syndicate guys in Brandon took a bunch of the kids, and then the Brotherhood of Steel took more."

Patrick's eyes went wide. "The Syndicate and the Brotherhood? Jesus…" He got up on his feet. "I need to go."

Lieutenant Joseph grabbed Patrick before he walked away. "Don't you even think about going after either one of the them, Morrison. Assiniboia is having enough issues with Brandon and the BoS to have an ordinary citizen try to charge in. The Dominion is overextended everywhere, and the RAMP will not be able to help you if you get into trouble, and if anything it will lead to war. That is the last thing we need right now."

Patrick scowled. "You mean to say that I should just give up on my brother? That I should let him be taken away to do hell knows what to him? I'm not giving up on Zach like that!"

Lieutenant Joseph was about to say something, before the portable radio on the Lieutenant's belt crackled to life. He grabbed the radio and brought it to his mouth. "Joseph here."

"Sir, Commander Mackenzie from Metigoshe is on the line for you. Do you have a long range radio to talk to him?"

Lieutenant Joseph looked at Patrick, who pointed back to the school. "Yeah, we have one. Give me fifteen to get to it,"

"Sir, you are also asked to bring the man that wiped out the raiders as well. The Commander would like to talk to him as well," the dispatcher said, before cutting the line.

"So who is Commander Mackenzie?" Patrick finally asked as they were walking into the school again.

"Commander Elliot Mackenzie is the leading RAMP man here in the District of Turtle Mountain. I've served here for years, and I have to say, he's a man of good intentions and a great leader of men, but he's also been known to be short tempered and brutally frank, especially with those of higher rank than him," Lieutenant Joseph commented. "That's why he's all the out where when officers of similar experience are leading Dragoons into battle or in a higher-prestige district. He should be in Red River North or PorLaPra, not little dinky Metigoshe, no offense."

Patrick nodded, as they walked back into the gym and to the corner of the room with the radio. He twisted the dial until he got to the RAMP channel.

"This is Lieutenant Joseph, RAMP, in Waskada, over," he said into the microphone.

A husky, deep voice came in on the line. "Commander Mackenzie hearing you, loud and clear."

"You wished to talk to me sir?"

"First I want to talk to that… Patrick Maurry you were talking about."

"Morrison, Commander," Lieutenant Joseph corrected. "Patrick Morrison."

"Put him on the line for me, will you?" The commander ordered. The Lieutenant shuffled over and allowed Patrick access to the microphone.

"This is Patrick Morrison, Commander."

There was a pause on the other end. "Sound a lot younger than I expected. How old are you?"

"Twenty, sir," Patrick replied.

Another silence. "From what I hear, you just did a very fool hardy thing, to charge into a town of raiders," the commander replied.

"I've been hearing that a lot in the past few hours," Patrick said, looking over to the stone-faced Lieutenant.

"Well it's true. Anyway, I'm going to cut to the chase. It's no secret that Assiniboia is facing some problems, from raiders and bandits to the Syndicate in Brandon, and, of course, the Brotherhood of Steel. I've been talking it over with the District Reeve, and he agrees that we can use someone of your talents to investigate a few things that we had bubbling up. Nothing serious or dangerous, but the RAMP cannot look into all of these things. Would you be interested?"

Patrick bit his lip and looked around, chewing on his lip. "I didn't do this to be a hero or get a job, you know. I did this to find my brother."

"I understand," the Commander Mackenzie said, with what sounded like genuine understanding, but it was hard to tell over the speakers. "Look, if you help us with these things, I will get a couple officers on the case to do what they can to track down the kids, your brother especially. Believe me, the RAMP do not want to have this mark on our record, that a bunch of children were just taken on our watch. We will do what we can to find them, and we will do all that we can to get them back, I promise."

Patrick thought it over, before at last picking up the mic again. "Commander, I'll help you with what I can, if you can help me."

Patrick could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. "Excellent! If you can come to Metigoshe as soon as possible, I can give you the details. Can I talk to Lieutenant Joseph for a moment?"

Patrick handed the mic back to the Lieutenant. "If you won't mind just stepping out for a moment please. This is RAMP business."

Patrick nodded and walked out of the gym and down the hallway. Patrick could hear the radio crackle on and off, and the Lieutenant saying something in return, but couldn't make out the words. A few minutes later, the RAMP officer came out of the gym, and motioned to Patrick to follow him as they walked through the school.

"I've been assigned to track down where the rest of the kids went, to the best of my abilities," Joseph said. "So I'll do what I can."

Patrick sighed. "So, it could be weeks before we actually know anything, right? Even though one of the kids said it was the Brotherhood and the Syndicate?"

"I can't tell you what to do Patrick," Lieutenant Joseph said. "Just know that if you go into Brandon, you're a dead man. If you go to the Brotherhood, you will not only be dead, but also most likely start a war. I know you want your brother back, and you just tackled and defeated a raider gang, but the Syndicate is a lot more than just some dirty raiders, and leagues behind the Brotherhood. So is it worth your life?"

Patrick sighed again, but eventually nodded as they arrived at their sleipnirs. "I'll go to Metigoshe then, and see what the Commander wants."

The lieutenant exhaled a breath of relief. "Thank God. The last thing I want is for someone else to die from a foolish decision. But don't worry. I'm sure if you do a good enough job, the RAMP might send you through the Dragoon's training course in Winnipeg. While most Dragoon's are officers or military men, they will allow those with special talents to join them. Oh, and I recommend heading back to Melita to take the train to Metigoshe. You will have to detour through Killarney to get there, but it will be safer and quicker."

Patrick was already nearly out the door of the gym by the time Lieutenant Joseph was done talking, and the RAMP officer ran after as Patrick walked quickly through the halls. "Thanks, but I don't exactly have the money for the train. Anyway, the train may be quicker, but they run on schedules. I want to be there as quick as I can." Patrick turned and pushed open the door of the library. Before the Lieutenant could say anything else, he could hear the snort and whinny of the black Sleipnir as it's owner mounted him, and quick hoof beats heading east signalled that Patrick was gone.

"Damn, that kid is stubborn," Joseph muttered, before turning to get his own Sleipnir. "Well, he's going to need it."

Pip-Boy 3000 InfoTracker Note #186

Governing Assiniboia: A Guide to Government and Administration

(2196 Edition)

Have you ever wondered how Assiniboia was governed? Or do you simply have a school test on this subject? Well look no further than this short guide to how your nation works!

First of all, Assiniboia is known as a "Dominion," much like Canada was known before the War of 2077 and the Annexation by the United States. A dominion is an old-world term that meant that the country was actually ruled by a King or Queen in a country far away known as "England." This did not mean that Canada had to do everything the Queen of King said. Oh no! In fact, Canada had something called a "Democracy." This meant that everyone in the country older than 18 could vote for a "Member of Parliament" or "MP" based on the parties that run candidates. This MP would be sent to the capital of the country to represent the area he was elected from in the "House of Commons." The leader of the party that won the most seats will then be named the Prime Minister, and he will decide policy and what the government will do. The House of Commons vote on Bills, and if they succeed they become the law of the nation. This government was in charge of the army, national police, radio, the mail, taxation, dealing with other countries, and many other issues.

Assiniboia works very similarly to this old system, with only a few changes, such as word choice: the House of Commons is now the Legislative Assembly, the capital is Winnipeg, and the King or Queen is replaced by the acting Governor General, who exercises the powers that the King or Queen would have had. Due to the changing nature of the Wasteland and how quickly threats and problems can develop, the Prime Minister is given powers to make laws without the approval of the House of Commons. He can only do this if over half the House of Commons determines that such a crisis cannot be resolved any other way. Rest assured, the Prime Minister would never blatantly abuse these powers!

Assiniboia also has a more local form of government, known as the "District." There are 12 districts in the Dominion, each with a central town where the government of the district is run, and bordered by some of the old highways. Each district has a Reeve, appointed by the Government in Winnipeg to oversee each district. There are several Councillors, between 4 and 10, elected from each town or village in the district who are then sent to advise the Reeve and help him with his duties in their area namely making sure roads, train tracks, rivers and trails are accessible all times of the year, providing law and order in the form of courts and the RAMP detachments, electing three MPs to go to Winnipeg to sit in the Legislative Assembly, and raising local militia's to protect the district. Winnipeg, being the largest city, is a unique case: they have an elected mayor in charge of the city, and elect 10 MPs to the Legislative Assembly, as well as other rights and privileges that only the Dominion government can exercise in the districts. There is also the "Territory," where the Reeve is replaced by a General of the Assiniboian Army, as the Territory is a dangerous area, and the Army is the only force capable to protect the area. The Territory can only elect one MP each, and most are still under Martial law, so the local General of the Assiniboian Army can dictate the rules.

Finally, some of the larger towns have their own government, and so far 22 towns have a mayor and a few councillors elected to organize their town. Each town with this responsibility has to maintain hospitals, schools, a well-stocked armoury, fresh water and enough food to withstand any problems that may arise.

This has been only a short and simple explanation of the government of Assiniboia. If you have any further questions, please contact your local RAMP Detachment, school, District or Town officer or Councillor, and they will be glad to assist you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The trip to Metigoshe from Waskada was longer than Patrick expected, and he had to set up camp and call it a night before he fell out of his saddle from exhaustion, only ten kilometers or so from Waskada. Even though Patrick and Demon made camp in one of the old farms that dotted the Assiniboian Wasteland, it took almost an entire day to get to Metigoshe from Waskada. The map on the Pip-Boy said it was only about 60 kilometers from Waskada, but it didn't take the terrain or the changing landscape into account. Gone were most of the gravel roads that divided every square mile from another, used to split up the land among the earliest pioneers over 300 years before. Now those roads were mostly grown over by brown grass and weeds, the gravel having been absorbed by the soil over the decades of neglect. Bridges that once spanned small creeks were also in disrepair, and now only the most important of roads and the largest of rivers had bridges. Otherwise, it was fording rivers at narrower crossings or shallower water. For Demon, it wasn't hard to wade across the shallow water for most of the crossings, though as they got closer to the town, the water went from a clear blue to a murky brown to almost black. A cloudy haze began to form on the horizon, and quickly went smoky and grey, and got darker and darker the closer they got to the town.

The smell wasn't that great either the closer Patrick got as well. There were stories that Metigoshe used to be part of a beautiful and pristine Provincial Park, a wildlife preserve of lakes, trees and cabins. However, there was something more valuable under the land than above it: coal. With fossil fuels becoming extinct, the old provincial government (with some prodding by the US occupation force) eagerly stripped the provincial park designation away in the late 2060s, and sold the lots to mining companies, turning the old Turtle Mountains into a huge strip mine. Millions of tons of coal was pulled from the ground, and although the coal was mediocre at best, the sale was a godsend in the desperate times of the Resource Wars. Most of the profit was funnelled to the provincial government that owned the land. Although there was unrest about it, the huge amounts of money that was then poured into healthcare and roads and lower taxes made the population more accepting. At least, the people that didn't have their cabin or fishing spot taken away and suffered the physical ailments that came, that was.

After the War of 2077, and the arrival of Assiniboia, the coal mines were once again opened up, and gave thousands of people precious fuel for warmth and cooking, such as Patrick and the Morrison clan had done. But the big factories in Winnipeg also demanded coal to power their machines to make the goods for the nation, not to mention fuelling all the steam powered trains that the UAR uses. The mines are still being run today, with new ones being opened up constantly, though the legacy of 200 years of disastrous mining had taken its toll. The land is almost completely polluted by the tailing ponds, poisoned water and useless land, and mixed with the radiation from the radstorms that came north from "Radiation Alley" where American missile silos were hit in the War. Altogether, the land was a disaster zone, one that only the desperate or those forced to worked or lived here.

Demon delicately sidestepped the murky pools, and snorted at the awful smell. Patrick had wrapped a handkerchief around his face to block out as much of the smell as possible, but it only did so much. He swore he could feel years draining from his body as horse and rider continued through the wastes and open pits where crews toiled away, chipping at the rock to unearth more of the precious coal. Patrick could see that most of them were chained together, and armed RAMP officers in gas masks stood watch over them. Most of the miners were prisoners and criminals, sentenced to work until either they paid off their debt to society or until they died. The later happened more than the former.

After hours of traveling through the hellish landscape, they reached the outskirts of Metigoshe by noon. The town was, much like the landscape around it, dirty and rundown. Even the newest houses had grime and soot on them from only a few months, and no one dared paint the houses if they could: the paint wouldn't stay the same color between start and finish. Very few people were outside unless they absolutely had to, and no kids were running around playing. Only in Metigoshe would kids be forced to stay indoors all day.

In the stale, filthy air, an Assiniboian flag bravely flapped outside a two story brick building, the "Red Ensign" barely red, and only the faint outline of the Union Jack could be seen in the top canton, while the coat of arms of a bison trampling an eagle, crowned by maple leafs, was frayed and tattered from age. Since painted signs were useless in Metigoshe, a large wood cut out with 'RAMP/ DISTRICT OFFICE" hung outside for everyone to see. Patrick dismounted and tied Demon to a grimy hitching post, and walked inside.

A door bell dinged as Patrick walked in, and dinged again as the door closed behind him. Three men, two in RAMP uniforms at the front desk and a third in a dirty black suit in the back, looked up to see a dusty rider with a couple days stubble on his chin. He looked much like any traveler on the roads, and one not used to the smell of the town.

"Can I help you sir?" one of the RAMP members asked, leaning on the desk.

"Yes, I'm here to see Commander Mackenzie."

The officer appraised Patrick with that comment, frowning that such an ordinary person wanted to see the district Commander. "He's in a meeting at the moment, can I take a message?"

"Well, he asked me to come here, about Waskada?" Patrick offered.

The RAMP officer raised an eyebrow. "What's your name, if I may ask?"

"Patrick Morrison."

The officer raised the other eyebrow. "Commander Mackenzie wanted to see you as soon as you got here. One moment."

The officer dashed away, and knocked on the door behind him. A mutter of disgust came from the other side of it, and the RAMP officer stuck his head in, and said something lower than Patrick can hear it. The officer jumped out of the way as the door swung open and a tall, heavyset man in a red uniform with more stripes and badges than he had ever seen on a policeman barged out.

"Mr. Morrison?" the large man, who could only be Commander Mackenzie, asked.

"Yes, sir?"

The man laughed, and held an arm out. "No need to call me Sir, at least not yet," the man exclaimed, grabbing and violently shaking Patrick's hand in greeting. "Come over here, let's talk!"

Patrick walked around the desk, the three other men in the room stared after Patrick, surprised that the Commander was so jovial, compared to what he was usually like.

"Jim, I would like you to meet Mr. Patrick Morrison. Patrick, Jim Stewart, the Reeve of the District. I'm sure you have heard of his work."

They shook hands, a much more gentle, but still firm, handshake than Patrick had with the RAMP Commander. He was a younger, thin man, dressed in as fine a suit as you would find outside of Winnipeg, and held himself with a dignity and upbringing far removed from the farming folk in the area. However, the suit was dusty and dirty, as was the Commander's Red Serge. Not even the powerful could get away from the pollution.

"Anyway come sit, sit!" Commander Mackenzie offered, motioning to a chair beside the Reeve, which Patrick took. The Reeve shuffled a bit, moving his body a bit to be away from the dirty farm boy, but Patrick didn't comment on it.

"So Patrick, tell me about what happened in Waskada," Commander Mackenzie asked. "I'll get you lunch, because it looks like you haven't eaten yet."

Patrick began to tell the story of what happened, while a Brahmin slice sandwich and a bottle of Nuka-Cola was set in front of him, and the RAMP man then sat behind his desk. As Patrick told his story, both men paid attention to him; the Commander with a policeman's keen ear and the Reeve at first out of amusement, but then full on interest and admiration as the tale unfolded.

"Well, I'll be," the Commander said when Patrick finished. "I knew that Raider camp was nothing but trouble."

"Why couldn't you have dealt with it sooner?" Reeve Stewart asked, fixing a stare at the commander.

"I'm short handed as it is, thanks to goddamned Winnipeg. Because they don't like me there, they are keeping men and supplies tied up for me. If I had five more men, I could have wiped out that camp months ago. But as is, I'm lucky that the bastards at HQ aren't stripping more men from me."

The Reeve turned to face Patrick. "You are to be commended for taking action at great personal risk, Mr. Morrison. I will get you a financial reward for your actions."

Patrick shook his head. "I didn't do it for money, Mr. Stewart. I did it to try to get my brother."

"Patty – can I call you Patty? – don't ever turn down money. Especially when this stringy bastard is offering it," the RAMP Commander laughed. The reeve gave a small, polite, but uncomfortable laugh at the Commander's joke.

"We will get you 200 Assiniboian Pounds. Should help you for getting supplies for what you have coming up next," the Reeve said.

"Coming up next?" Patrick asked.

The Commander stood up, and walked over to a large map of Assiniboia, with all the districts highlighted, black lines for the railroads, and dots for all the towns in the area. "We have a lot of issues all over Western Assiniboia, so I guess it depends on where you want to start."

"Wait, what? What are you talking about?" Patrick asked.

Commander Mackenzie turned around. "Oh, right. I should have asked first. But, you know that the RAMP is short handed on officers, and we just don't have the manpower to do everything that is expected of us, especially with the Brotherhood kicking up a fuss at Fargo again. So this is where we rely on outside help, on men and women that we grant the title Auxiliary. And since you've already proven yourself, I want to name you one."

Patrick blinked. "Uh… Commander," he started. "I…"

"Don't say it," Mackenzie said. "I know you aren't exactly raring for adventure and danger, but you have proven yourself, that you can stand up in a fight by yourself. And, I promise, if you help the RAMP, we will help you."

Patrick looked around the room, and at the big map of Assiniboia, with it's red borders and large black dots for towns, and the large insert of Winnipeg in the top left corner. Melita was on the other end of the Dominion from Winnipeg, with dozens of other dots all along the thin, mostly straight black lines of railroads and the curvy blue lines of rivers. Just the ride from Waskada to Metigoshe, and from Melita to Waskada, showed just how big this country was.

And they needed _him_ of all people to help out?

But, if the RAMP could then help to find Zach…

"Alright, I'll do it,"

Commander Mackenzie smiled. "Excellent."

Reeve Stewart cleared his throat. "I think the biggest concern we face is here, at the water plant."

"What's wrong?"

"The Water Treatment plant here in Metigoshe is having issues, namely with the Controller Chip for the filtration system. Vault H near Winnipeg should have one, or at least the capability to rebuild it, so we want you to go there and see if you can get one. This isn't a dangerous mission, but it is of vital importance," the Reeve said.

"Why haven't you got a caravan or the RAMP to send one earlier?"

The Reeve sighed. "If only it were that simple. We want to keep this on the downlow, and word can spread quickly, especially if one of the two engineer's we have that maintain the plant were to suddenly go away. And we can't We also cannot afford to alarm the people here that we have an issue with the plant. The community is already a bit restless with the dangerous pollution and lack of safety in the mines that if they thought something was wrong with the plant, we could have a riot. So this needs to be kept very quiet."

Patrick nodded. "I see. Well, Vault H, that's…"

"Southeast of Winnipeg," Commander Mackenzie said, pointing at a spot on the map. "Other side of the country."

"That would be quite a hike," Patrick said, thinking it over in his head. That was over 250 kilometers away, and, guessing about 30 kilometers a day with Demon, with stops along the way. "Would be almost 10 days to get there. I… I don't think I can do that."

Commander Mackenzie chortled a bit. "What makes you think we are going to send you by a Sleipnir? No, as a RAMP Auxiliary, and you are going to get free rides on the Unified Assiniboian Railroad system, as all Auxiliary's on official service would receive. We don't want this to seem like a problem, but we want to get it done."

Patrick nervously drummed his fingers on his legs. He wasn't afraid of trains: he loved going on them as a kid. But the furthest he had ever gone was to Souris, to see family years ago. But going to Vault H, that would be on the other side of the country, further than he had ever gone before...

"You just don't want to go, do you Patty?" the RAMP man said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"Well… no." Patrick finally admitted. "I'm not a really cut out for this work. I have no experience in these things. No knowledge of what to do. No…"

Commander Mackenzie waved his hand to cut Patrick off. "Look, don't do this for me, or for the town of Metigoshe. Hell, I don't care if you don't want to do it for Assiniboia. But do it for your brother. We, and I mean the RAMP and the Dominion will do everything possible to help you get your brother and the other kids. I promise you that, Patrick."

Patrick leaned back in his chair, and looked up on the roof. He really did want to find Zach, and he knew couldn't do it alone. While he had been told that Commander Mackenzie was a bit head strong and brutish at times, he was never one to lie, and always got the job done. He took the RAMP's raison d'etre to heart: We Always Get Our Man.

Patrick sat up again. "Alright, I'll do this."

Commander Mackenzie grinned, and Reeve Stewart beside Patrick nodded. "Alright! Excellent! The train for Turtle Town is scheduled to leave in three hours, but we need to make sure you're outfitted. After that, you can take the South Line from there to Atwood, and then up north to Winnipeg. You should be in Atwood by the day after tomorrow, and then at Vault H in… three days. Shouldn't be any problem. Oh, and we can ship your Sleipnir on the same train.

"Honestly, what can go wrong?"

The train was two hours late pulling into the station at Metigoshe, and that was three hours after Patrick arrived in the station. Patrick had been left to sit in the old wood building, as first Commander Mackenzie and then Reeve Stewart left, leaving the young man alone. The wind picked up and began to howl outside, making the old timbers creak. The red paint on the outside had been peeling in the spots were it wasn't black from soot and smoke, and the inside wasn't much cleaner, with a worker in dirty overalls constantly sweeping the interiors. A man in a blue UAR uniform who functioned as station master, ticket manager and tourist guide, dozed behind his booth. The loud _clack-clack-clack_ of the Radio-Teleprinter in another room, giving updates on trains, news and the occasional private message, would make the few people in the room jerk upright, drowning out a radio that was too quiet to hear much from, but too loud to totally ignore.

Patrick was relieved when the the semi-streamlined steam locomotive, a copy of a copy of an original 1930s locomotive type known as the Royal Hudson, wheezed into the station. The engine was a 4-6-4, a model with a long history, including taking the King and Queen across the country once over 200 years before. Almost every steam locomotive in Assiniboia is a Royal Hudson, or as close to them as a post-apocalyptic survivor nation could build.

Although the UAR had designed new engines, such as the fusion powered Atomracer and Nucliner, the lack of uranium, steel and other resources meant that only a few of those engines had been constructed and they would only be used on the major lines. Otherwise, it was all old fashioned steam.

Patrick's nerves had hit an all time peak waiting for the train. He wasn't really looking forward to dashing all over the country to run errands, but now that he was an RAMP auxiliary – he had taken the Oath of Service in Commander Mackenzie's office – he had to serve his country. He might have been one of the most reluctant RAMP members ever. If he did just enough, hopefully by then the RAMP would have found his brother, and he can take him and go back home. That is all he really wanted.

Five people got off the train. A man in a suit and suitcase, who promptly started coughing at the disgusting air in Metigoshe; a woman and two children, a boy and girl, who were dressed in dirty clothing and with depressed, saddened faces; and an older man with a heavily wrinkled face, leaning on an old cane. Patrick wondered for a moment what their stories were, but he grabbed his backpack instead and stood up, ready to move to the line.

The conductor from the train, still in a dignified blue suit with brass buttons that were only starting to turn black because of the local atmosphere, walked into the station, carrying a megaphone.

"The train for Turtle Town will leave in an hour." The conductor announced. "All those going to Turtle Town, please have your tickets ready and we will screen you before boarding. We apologize for the delay."

Patrick stood up and walked over to the screening area, where eight other people were standing, all but three of them in dirty miner's garb. An older woman in a blue dress, with a few black marks from the soot and air, was first in line, and breezed right through. The non- mining men were, although sooty, cleaner, in worn but respectable clothes, carrying large suitcases, and looked to be not from around the area. Most likely from further South in old Dakota, and traveling into Assiniboia for work, Patrick guessed. Two security men in a mish-mash of metal and leather armor began to pat down and check the passengers boarding the train very thoroughly (though they were more respectful to the old woman, and not quite as much to the lone female miner, who growled as one of the men copped a feel), and only with great reluctance allowing the approved passengers to continue on after the ticket and the person was found to pass muster. One of the dirty miners was found to have a knife, a finely crafted combat knife, in his pocket, and it was snatched from him and tossed into a bin nearby. The miner protested, and at least asked the knife be placed into his luggage, but the guards refused, and the miner reluctantly walked away, into the cleared area. Patrick knew that those knifes were not cheap, often an entire week's wage for a miner, and now it was most likely going to find it's way, somehow, into the black market. The guards at the UAR stations were known, almost reviled, for their often-lucrative position and how many handled it.

Patrick was glad that all his guns were going to be packed in the luggage car. He did a mental check: a service rifle, the R91 assault rifle picked up at Waskada, a 10mm pistol, four knives, and a .44 Magnum revolver, given to him by Lieutenant Joseph before he left Waskada. Patrick was almost a walking armoury already!

When it was Patrick's turn, the first guard snatched the ticket from his hand and looked at it. He suddenly stiffened and looked up.

"Oh, sorry sir. You don't have to be screened," he apologized, handing the ticket back. "RAMP members are automatically cleared."

Patrick didn't say anything, but pulled the bag over his shoulder and walked through to the gathering area, where the rest of the passengers were relaxing on old, wooden benches. Patrick made his way over to an unoccupied spot, and sat down.

The wind howled and the old wood building creaked and groaned. A couple speakers connected to a radio hummed some music that barely sounded through the station. The two men from Dakota were talking to themselves, while a couple of the miners began to doze off, the half-comfortable seats lulling the perpetually exhausted workers to sleep.

Patrick looked up at the old clock on the wall, which signalled 7:58. The train still had half an hour before it was ready, and outside the clang of metal cars, along with the deep rumble of excavated coal falling into cars momentarily eclipsed the wind, music and silent conversation.

At 8 o'clock, the radio was turned up, and the familiar ditty of the Assiniboian Broadcasting Corporation echoed through the silent halls. Some of those in the room turned their attention to those radio and the hourly news update, while others, like the two men from down south, ignored it. Patrick at that moment realized he hadn't listened to the radio for a couple days, just before the attack on Melita… he shook his head. He wasn't going to think about his family. Not right now.

"From the Assiniboia Broadcasting Corporation in Winnipeg, this is the Eight O'clock News Update for May 10, 2218. Good evening, I'm Lindsay Kennedy.

"Our top story is the remarkable change of fortune in Turtle Mountain district. After a raider attack in the southwestern corner of the Dominion that left 38 dead and 27 children missing, one survivor from the Melita area took the law into his own hands and charged into the raider encampment in old Waskada. This man managed to kill the leader of the bandits and set the rest of the raiders against each other before RAMP reinforcements arrived. The local District Commander of the RAMP has made this man an Auxiliary of the RAMP for his service, but the name of this Auxiliary has been classified top secret at this time, as the RAMP hopes that they can continue to use his services in the future."

Patrick listened to the radio, his eyes gone wide. How the hell did the radio find out about what he was doing already? Commander Mackenzie must have been responsible for it getting out, though it irked Patrick that he wasn't told he'd make it onto the news.

Patrick grumbled a bit, but was somewhat mollified that they hadn't used his actual name. And, really, this story would come up, be talked about for a couple days, then go away again.

But, thinking about it: Auxiliary? That was a stupid title to give someone. It basically meant they were second best, the backup.

A few more news stories were provided, and then the local weather (grey, smog, possible radiation storm tomorrow, so the town and mines would most likely be shut down), and then back to the music. Patrick was nearly dozing off when he conductor lifted the megaphone to his lips and started shouting that the train was boarding, interrupting Patrick's rest. He looked to the clock to see that it was 8:15 now.

"Well, I guess that's the signal," the old lady in a streaked blue dress said, groaning as she pushed herself up from her spot.

Patrick nodded as the man left, walking back out of the secure area and out into the station, with a happy step despite his cane and aching bones. Patrick wondered for a moment why the man came to him, but he left some questions in his mind that he couldn't quite answer yet. At least he had some time on the train to think about it.

The train wheezed into the station in Turtle Town, and gave a groaning sigh as the steam was released was turned off. It was almost one in the morning, and even the short trip from Metigoshe was longer than expected. At this rate, it might have been easier to just mount Demon and walk to Vault H than take the train.

Patrick shook his head to push away sleep for a while longer. One thing about the train, at least it could put him to sleep. That you couldn't do on a Sleipnir, especially the nearly wild Demon.

Speaking of the equine, Patrick walked along the station platform to the boxcar reserved for animals. The plank had been lowered and a half dozen Brahmin where being lead out to their new home (or, more likely, to be slaughtered here), and Patrick climbed up after they were gone. The stench of the Brahmin still lingered though, but Patrick was sure that it would never get out of this car.

On one end a couple stalls had been built for Sleipnirs, and the pure black beast of Patrick's shuffled a bit in his stall that was almost too small.

"Easy boy," Patrick said, petting the massive nuzzle as Demon snorted. "Going to have to change trains soon anyway, and I can take you for a ride around the area. Stretch and let you run free."

Patrick untied Demon and lead him down the ramp, and onto the platform. As soon as he got off and out of the station, a woman with a nice shirt, a leather jacket and a skirt noticed him, and started calling out. She was a beautiful women, in her mid 30s, but already with creases on her forehead and cheeks, and had dark blue bags hanging under her eyes, but bright blue eyes that locked in with his.

"Patrick! Patrick Morrison!" The woman shouted, jogging along the platform. "Are you Patrick Morrison?"

"Yeah?" Patrick asked, confused. How did this random stranger know him?

She gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, that's good. You would have no idea how many other people I have stopped today looking for you."

Patrick raised an eyebrow, more confused than ever.

"Oh, sorry, I should give you my name. I'm Clarice Fairbank, the mayor of Turtle Town, President of the Chamber of Commerce, and owner of the Wild Times Inn and General Store. Commander Mackenzie of the RAMP said you would be coming."

Patrick sighed. This didn't sound good. "Look, I'm not here for long… I'm just waiting until the train is ready to go on west."

Clarice frowned. "Unfortunately, the train might not be going further west today. Or for a long time yet. A group of bandits, calling themselves the Dakota Liberation Army, have been threatening us and the train, and we cannot allow it to continue on."

Patrick was now the one frowning. "Why haven't you done anything about it then?"

"Because the RAMP closed the detachment here a few years ago due to budget cuts and a 'reorganization,' which basically meant taking the best men and sending them down to Fargo in case a war breaks out again with the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Yeah, I heard about that a couple years or so ago," Patrick said.

"But that's not the worst of it. Just before that, a group of tribals from… I dunno where, down south, pushed out by the Brotherhood of Steel for not swearing fealty to them, or some sad sob story. They came up north, and asked us if we would help them set up a settlement at the old International Peace Gardens. We had a vote, and agreed, and sent some food, building materials and seeds to help them. But it seems they just backstabbed us. That Dakota Liberation Army of bandits showed up almost immediately after, started attacking Turtle Town. Not just the town, but also farms in the area, and caravans that supply us. Taking Brahmin and Sleipnirs, and killing whoever may get in their way. But lately they have been getting bold, attacking the town and shooting at trains. If they were to destroy the train or the train track, we are better than dead."

Patrick fiddled with the leather reins in his hand. "Don't you have a militia or something? I've been busy with some other things for the commander…"

The Mayor and businesswoman shook her head. "Our militia, even if we could get everyone together, is just a rowdy band of kids and old men that would rather get drunk or run away than actually fight, even if it is to protect their homes. Farmers, residents and other businesses have been packing up and leaving for a long time, and at this point, only the most stubborn, or the foolish, have stayed. Dozens of people have been killed in these attacks, and Winnipeg doesn't give a damn. At least Melita got a full time RAMP detachment, you lucky bastards. But since we here are nowhere near the borders of Assiniboia, they believed they could gamble with our town. And we are losing now.

"I know you are busy, but could you please help us, Auxiliary?"

Patrick winced at the name he had been given by the DBS. Was he going to be turned into a fictional caricature now? One that would protect Assiniboia and drive out raiders and bandits wherever he goes? He only kicked out a band of raiders in Waskada! It was starting to feel like his life was a comic book like the ones they still printed in Winnipeg, or Captain Mark on the radio…

Clarice cleared her throat, snapping Patrick out of his thoughts. "I can give you something for your troubles. Five hundred Assiniboian pounds and a 20% discount at my store. And, until the caravans were threatened, I had one of the best stocks in the whole district. Once that Dakota Liberation Army is gone, I can restock better than before." She paused. "I could… give you something better than that though."

Patrick noticed the change in her voice, as if she was trying to seduce him. "I'm not doing this for the money. I'm doing this for my brother."

"Commander Mackenzie told me about your brother. I'm sorry for your loss, but could you please help us? Do it in the name of your brother, and help us. Help me."

Patrick looked up at Clarice. She was nearly begging, pleading now. It almost made Patrick uncomfortable, but he managed to nod, slowly pushing her back.

"All right, I'll help you."

Clarice Fairbank smiled, something that, from the look of it, she hadn't done in a long time. "The bandits are just south of here, at the International Peace Gardens. Kind of ironic, if you think about it. They are good Sleipnir riders, and have trained and breed the biggest, fastest beasts you can find in this area. Without their Sleipnirs though, they are nothing. If you can do something to their Sleipnirs, like poison them or something, they will be unable to do anything."

Patrick nodded. "I know that alcohol does nothing good for a Sleipnir. Dump enough bottles of booze into their watering hole, and they should be as near death as you can get without putting a bullet in them."

Clarice continued smiling. "Clever guy. I like a clever man." She shook her head, her face becoming serious again. "Fortunately, I have enough of that. Come on, I will get you some whiskey and vodka."

Patrick swung up on Demon, and followed her off their train station platform and down the street, past the old, decaying statue of Tommy the Turtle that gave the town it's name.

"This place used to be something else; Boy-see-vain or something like that. Even the elder's can't remember how it was said," Clarice said as they walked by. "When my grandparents and a dozen other families came her 70 some years ago, they just renamed it into something more pronounceable."

"So your grandfather rebuilt this town?" Patrick asked as Demon walked through a deep pothole in the broken pavement.

"Yeah. A bunch of people from Winnipeg homeless, Brandon displaced and some people from Grand Forks that wanted to remain part of Assiniboia after they left all came to settle here. He died soon after the town was started up. A pack of radgopher's tore him limb from limb when he was on a scouting party in… must have been 2140, if I remember right. It was my grandmother who really kept this town going, being the only lady with a large amount of education at the time. She was promptly made the mayor and schoolteacher. She even taught me when I was younger. She loved teaching so much, that she fell over and died in the schoolroom when she was 89 years old." Clarice sniffled. "The funny thing was… she was just teaching me and the other kids first aid."

Patrick did his best to stifle a chuckle, but Clarice looked up, and smiled. "Don't worry. She had a good, long life. And she would have appreciated that bit of humor as well."

Clarice turned around and walked over to the two-story building at the edge of the town, with the old sign that was stitched together of different pieces of rotted wood to spell out "Wild Times Hotel" with "General Store" as an afterthought.

Clarice took a key and unlocked the front door as Patrick pulled Demon to a stop in front of a hitching post, which had a long trough divided into a food and water section. There was a pile of hay under the rafters, so Patrick grabbed an arm full and dumped it in, followed by a few pumps of the old-fashioned water pump to top off the water trough. As Demon put it's head into the trough and starting chewing on the hay, Patrick took a currycomb from the saddlebag, and brushed down his stead. It had been a while since he did it, so the fur was matted from sweat, grime and dust. After a few minutes, the black coat shined in the moonlight, and satisfied, Patrick put the brush back in his bag. With Demon taken care of and content, Patrick wrapped the reins around the post and went inside.

The room he stepped into was, well, a bar. It was dark and musty, with the smell of spilt beer and whisky hanging in the air. The floor was covered in dust, and the bottles behind the counter, if they weren't empty, were almost. It looked like not many customers had been here for a while.

Patrick glanced around, at the old signs that hung from the wall: rusty metal signs promoting Allen's Ale (proudly Nova Scotia since 1918… wherever Nova Scotia was) and Red River Rum, which was still being made in Assiniboia today. And of course the obligatory Nuka Cola sign, with intact neon tubes, but no way to light it. They always said Nuka Cola had a dispenser on every corner of America before the War of 2077, and Canada was no different. Most of them had since been picked up and hauled to Winnipeg for the scrap metal, but some towns still had a big old box promoting the long gone Nuka Cola. More numerous was the Borealis Ginger Ale, the Canadian alternative to the American drink, but virtually extinct now. Patrick could only remember drinking it once, and in a small glass for his graduation from school a few years before.

A door slammed to the side, and Patrick turned around to see Clarice carrying a small box full of bottles, which clinked and sloshed together. She pulled out two bottles of whiskey and slid them across the counter to Patrick. Patrick however wasn't looking at the drinks, but the fact that she had taken off the leather jacket, and the skirt was a lot shorter than he remembered, and the shirt wasn't exactly practical in the harsh climate of Assiniboia, showing off a lot of skin.

She set the box on the counter, and walked around to Patrick, gently taking hold of the leather armor he wore. Patrick could smell a perfume tickle his nose, the strong scent of flowers that he was sure she didn't have before.

"Mrs. Fairbank…"

"Miss," Clarice corrected him. "Mrs. Fairbank was my mother. Marrying was too much of a hassle for me." She gave a very seductive smile as she said that, making Patrick shudder.

"Miss Fairbank," Patrick said. "I… I don't know what you are doing..."

She gave a faint smile. "Well… I know you said you would help my town. But, well…" she started gently stroking Patrick's chin, making Patrick shudder again from the touch. "I could use some help. More… personally."

 _She's really trying to flirt with me? Why me?_

"I… I uh…," Patrick stammered, his face turning red.

"You've never… done it before?" She asked, curious and amused. "A strong, strapping man like you?"

Patrick did have some dalliances before. Well, one: Vanessa, back in the last years of school. But it never really clicked, for some reason that Patrick still didn't know. And since then, he had been busy on the farm and helping his grandparents to pursue any romance.

"Well…" Patrick started.

Clarice interrupted with a quick kiss that surprised Patrick. She forced her tongue into his mouth, exploring and savoring it, before pulling back, and giving a smile. "It's fine. I like breaking in a new guy."

She then lead him up some stairs to a room, closing and locking it behind her.

Pip-Boy 3000 InfoTracker Note #298

 **Boats, Trains and Caravans: Getting Around Assiniboia**

Prepared by the Assiniboian Department of Transportation, June 2175

If you are planning a trip around our great nation, you should keep in mind that we have many great options to get you from where you are and where you want to go!

The rivers and lakes of Assiniboia are perhaps the best natural transport system we have, and they've been used since the earliest days of Indians and settlers in these parts. But instead of canoes and little planks of wood, we have boats powered by miniature fusion reactors that can travel anywhere. The Red, Assiniboine and Souris rivers are perhaps the most important waterways and many companies strive to provide a reliable and easy way for people and freight to travel all over our great nation, and since most raiders don't have a boat, perhaps one of the safest! *

But maybe you get seasick? In that case, why not try out the trains we have to offer? The Unified Assiniboian Railroad is proud to run massive fusion steam engines that can travel over 80 kilometers an hour and link many towns that were started by the same railroad 300 years earlier, or newer towns that know the best way to go is by train. Perhaps the quickest way to go, the railway built old Canada hundreds of years ago, and despite wars and disasters, they continue to help us today. Plus, they are fast enough that most raiders wouldn't dare to try to stop a train! **

If the train is too fast for you, or you are too far away from the river or rails, then how about a caravan? Many companies and towns all over Assiniboia rely on the timely arrival of the caravans, composed of wagons pulled by Brahmin or sleipnirs that can go anywhere that the railway and boats cannot. The Royal Assiniboian Postal Service, Rediboine Trading Company, the Union of Independent Traders and Great Northern Caravan Company, plus many smaller companies, have armed guards and great security measures to insure that your products will make sure that raiders will think twice before attacking caravans of precious cargo! ***

So the next time you want to travel across our nation, by land or sea, keep in mind many of the great ways you can go!

*Raiders sometimes have boats and can attack other boats.

** Raiders are known to stop trains through many devious ways.

*** Raiders are known to attack caravans, thinking twice or not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The sun that was just peaking over the horizon to the west shone through the partially broken windows, and landed squarely on Patrick's face. He winced, and rolled over, his arm brushing against the soft skin of Clarice Fairbank. Patrick shuddered, partially from the cold air that was now seeping under the blanket over his nude body, but also from the memories of the previous night.

To put it bluntly, it was not good. Well, Patrick didn't think it was good, and he apologized the entire time. He was in the way, he wasn't doing it right, he finished way too soon. Clarice tried to reassure him, that going off that quickly was fine. Just needed practice. That he wasn't awkward or weird.

But it sure felt that way. He still felt weird and ashamed at what happened last night.

Maybe that's why it never worked with Vanessa.

Patrick groaned as he pushed himself out of bed, and splashing some water from a nearby bowl onto his face. The cold water woke him up better than any cup of coffee or tea he had ever drank. He hurriedly got dressed in the clothes he wore yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that...

"Grab a bite to eat from the fridge downstairs," Clarice mumbled, making Patrick turn around to see that she remained tucked under the blankets. "I'm just going to rest a bit longer."

Patrick was about to say something, but Clarice's eyes had already closed. He just snuck out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

The fridge behind the bar had an assortment of food in it, so Patrick grabbed the Brahmin stew, and started devouring it. It was cold, like the room, but at least it was filling.

Patrick looked out the window out front, only to notice the hitching post was empty. He blinked, and looked again… but Demon wasn't there.

The bowl dropped, spilling some stew on the counter. Where the hell was his Sleipnir? He ran out the door, and looked around. The reins that had help Demon to the post had been cut, and it was clear that a sharp knife had done it.

Patrick turned around and ran back into the Wild Times Inn, and dashed upstairs, barging in on Clarice's room.

"He's gone!" he nearly screamed, startling and scaring the sleeping woman.

"What are you talking about?" she replied back, her eyes wide at the angry man in front of her.

"Where the hell is Demon? He was tied up last night, and now he's gone!"

Clarice sat up, the blankets falling away to show off her nude body. Patrick was too angry and terrified at losing his animal to be aroused or shocked at the sight. "I… I don't know. Those Dakota bastards must have took him. Should have told you to put him in the stable here. May have at least slowed them down."

Patrick growled, and kicked at the floor. "Fuck, I wish you would have told me that."

Clarice grabbed a night robe on a hook near her bed and threw it over herself. "I can call someone around here and get you another sleipnir to borrow. Old Man Dickinson has the strongest and most secure stable in the town, and he should be able to lend you a horse."

Patrick was already through the door and heading downstairs to grab his backpack and rifle as Clarice got out of bed, and grabbed her bulky leather jacket from yesterday. She quickly caught up to Patrick and the two quickly walked across town, right up to the old curling rink. The sign had been painted over with "Dickinson Livery Stable", but the picture of curling rocks and brooms still came through.

Patrick burst through the door, startling the elderly gentleman writing something, and making ink fly over the bespectacled man's letter. "Damn it! I'm already running low on paper, and this isn't cheap stuff," the old man grumbled.

"Mr. Dickinson, Patrick here had his horse stolen last night," Clarice said.

The old man pushed the glassed up on his nose. "Miss Mayor Fairbank... it was those bandits again from the gardens, wasn't it?"

"Had to be."

The man grumbled. "Damn… must have been a fine specimen of a horse. They haven't taken many over the past few months, and of them they had to be the best breeding stock. I know they nearly got my prize stud one day. But at your place? They must have really wanted him."

"Can you get me another sleipnir?" Patrick demanded. "I'm going to take care of them, once and for all."

Old Man Dickinson whistled. "Serious?" When neither answered, the old man grumbled and pushed himself from his desk. "I got a few mares and a couple geldings. Do you want speed or endurance?"

"Fastest horse you got. I want to get Demon back as soon as possible."

Old Man Dickinson muttered to himself as he pushed himself off his chair and walked back into the building that had been turned into a stable. "A lifetime of training and breeding sleipnirs. Used to have a bunch of pens and pastures they could walk around and graze in, but now with these bandits, I can't keep my eye off them one moment."

The old man stopped. "Wait, how did they know that you are in town, young man? When did you come?"

"By train last night. Clarice here stopped me and asked me to help with the bandits."

The old man sniffled, and pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose in it. "You wouldn't to happen to be that Auxiliary fellow, are ya?"

Patrick grimaced. "Maybe…"

Dickinson nodded. "I thought so. After hearing of Waskada, the only man that could have possibly done anything about these bandits had to be that Auxiliary. Brave young man you are."

Patrick tried not to say anything. It was becoming clear that he was going to be known as "Auxiliary" now for the rest of his life, for one stupid thing. That wasn't exactly reassuring to going back to a normal life.

The old man stopped in front of a stall with a large, yet quiet, gelding. It's body came up to about Patrick's shoulder, making it a bit smaller than Demon, with a lovingly cared for coat of grey and white hair, with a solid grey mane and tail.

"Aradesh here is a fine creature. Won a few single rider races in the fair in Killarney a few years ago, and should still do fine if we could even go to them now. But he is the fastest gelding we have. Can run a fair distance without tiring, yet quiet. He would have been good for kids and first time riders, if he didn't have it in his head to go fast all the time."

"What kind of name is Aradesh?" Clarice asked.

"Some name I heard from traders that went on the Rocky Mountain Trail down to Denver. Some big shot in a town in Cal-ee-four-nah, or however you pronounce it."

"Perfect. How much do I have to pay you to rent him?" Patrick said, walking up to the pen and stroking the horse, who just nickered and stomped its hoof, pushing it's nuzzle into Patrick's hand. A lot friendlier than Demon, that's for sure.

"I got it Patrick," Clarice said, much to both Patrick's and Old Man Dickinson's surprise. "Just get going."

Patrick looked to Old Man Dickinson, and he shrugged. "His gear is in the locker over there. I assume you know how to saddle a sleipnir?"

Patrick didn't say anything, but unlatched the stable door and lead Aradesh out of it's pen, and got it to stand beside the locker. First the thick wool blanket, then the saddle, an expensively well-done leather saddle that must have cost as much as the horse itself, and Patrick snugly fastened the straps around the midsection of the sleipnir. The halter was changed to a fancy leather one with reins - much nicer than what Patrick could afford - and with that he slipped his boot into the stirrup and pulled himself up. Aradesh snorted as Patrick landed on his back

"Be careful, Patrick," Clarice said as Patrick turned the gelding toward the large doors at the end of the old curling rink, which Old Man Dickenson was already opening. "Oh, and you better take this," she added, holding up a couple bottles of whiskey.

"I'll do my best." Patrick replied, taking the bottles and slipping them into the pockets on his leather jacket. He snapped the reins and Aradesh, free of his pen and seeing the open door in front of him, reared with a whiney, and dashed forward, the clip-clop of eight powerful hooves on the hay covered cement floor echoing through the building as Patrick guided him out.

Running down the old residential street, in no time at all Patrick and Aradesh were at the old highway that ran through the town. Patrick pulled on the right rein hard, and it turned Aradesh's head to the south, down what was once Manitoba Highway 10, and he quickly turned, and to the south Patrick and the borrowed sleipnir ran.

Aradesh only managed to sprint five kilometers before Patrick had to slow down the creature. It was panting heavily, and sweat was running off the sides off the grey and white sleipnir. However, that five kilometers was perhaps the quickest Patrick had ever gone, only fifteen or twenty minutes. Patrick forgot to look at the Pipboy to actually measure the time.

For the next twenty kilometers or so, Patrick allowed Aradesh to trot, quickly and expertly making its way over the broken pavement of old Highway 10. The wind was calm, and over to the west Patrick could see the smoke and clouds of Metigoshe, with a greenish tinge to it, and the occasional steak of radlightning. But over here, it was almost pristine wasteland: a few greenish-brown grass spots trying to push out in the harsh sun and cool weather, ruins of old cars where they stopped when either gas or fusion cells ran out, the collapsing hulks of homesteads, farms and houses from years gone by.

After about an hours riding, Patrick reached a sign with "International Peace Gardens" in white letters on the rusty green sign. Old paint had dried over the "International" and "Peace," with "American Victory!" painted over it in black, though that paint was nearly gone as well. Patrick grimaced at the sight. History lessons tried to drill into their students how bad the Americans had been: it was rumored they were doing their best to rename everything to show their superiority over the Canadians they had annexed. Parks, monuments and anything that at one point celebrated the ancient friendship of the US and Canada, or Canadian nationalism, was destroyed, renamed or forgotten about. The International Peace Gardens, a make-work project in the Great Depression that was to celebrate the friendship of the two neighbors, was to be turned into a memorial to American imperialism and Canadian subjection.

The sign passed behind him, and the horse and rider continued along the road. As they continued, Patrick glanced ahead to see some smoke, barely visible, wafting up into the sky. It appeared like it was a campfire, but it was a lot closer than the actual park. Patrick pulled Aradesh off the road and into the hilly terrain, and they began to walk in a straight line toward the smoke through the small, nearly lifeless bushes that struggled to grow on the side of the road.

After ten minutes slowly making his way through the difficult land, Patrick was on an outcrop that looked over a small depression, where he noticed a couple people sitting around a campfire: a young man, not much older than 18, and an older woman. Patrick pulled the sleipnir to a stop, and pulled slipped his own gun off his back to hold it at the ready.

"Hello down there!" Patrick called out, making the two people jump and turn around, their own rifles quickly and swiftly off their backs and in their hands, but not pointed at Patrick. When they saw the rider and the grey-white sleipnir, they lowered their guns, but not that much.

"What the hell are you doing? Get down from there!" the woman shouted, gesturing him. "Those Dakota Liberation Army folks can see you!"

Patrick swung off Aradesh, and lead the eight-legged creature down the slope to where the small camp was. It looked like it had been there a while, with the dirt all around the small camp fire and the two tents stomped down almost as hard as cement, and weeks worth of ashes were in the campfire. They were dirty, their clothes were dirty, and were thin from lack of food. They weren't starving - there was a pile of hides from the radstags, as well as rotting radgopher and coyote bodies, all the useable meat scraped off – but they weren't exactly comfortable.

The boy and the women were only wearing simple leather and cloth clothes that were dyed different shades of green, brown and black like camouflage, though beads and bits of carved wood and bone were attached on necklaces and strings that hung around their wrists. The woman had her hair done up in an intricate weave and braids, while the boy had only one long braid with beads done up, and he went without a top covering to show off his young, lean body. He must have had a thicker skin to manage to live through the cold climate of Assiniboia like that.

"What the hell are you doing down here?" the lady asked, concern in her voice. "Nobody comes this way."

"Then what are you doing here?" Patrick asked in return.

She looked south, toward the old Peace Gardens. "Managed to escape those damn Dakota Army bastards. But now all we can do is just… survive." She looked back. "Oh, my name is Jenna, and this is my son, Derek. He's a great shot. The only reason we have survived as long as we have out here."

"My name is Patrick Morrison," Patrick introduced himself, before frowning. "Then why didn't you go to Turtle Town? The mayor said that she had helped set the town up."

Jenna gave a bitter laugh. "As if, PatrickMorrison," she said, as if it was one long name. Must not have been used to surnames. "They just gave us a bag of seed, a half-full wagon of food and supplies, and wished us luck. Though it was more likely she wanted us all to just fall down dead." She shook her head. "Almost as soon as we managed to get some houses and the first crops planted, those bastards from Dakota came in, shot our leader and the sheriff we elected, and declared that they were now servants to their 'noble goal' of freeing North Dakota from Assiniboia."

"So, it wasn't the townsfolk who just started attacking Turtle Town and the train?" Patrick asked.

"Hell no, PatrickMorrison! We wanted to build a new town and try to survive, after that Brotherhood of Steel marched in and took over the area around Chicago. We just wanted to be left alone; not have our food taken from us, our kids ripped from our hands to be made into warriors. Assiniboia, we always heard, was a land of plenty, one of peace. A large group of us left because of it."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Patrick said, though he personally questioned if she was lying or not. "But, is there someway we could get rid of the Dakota Liberation Army? Kill them or their sleipnirs or something?" Patrick asked

Jenna winced. "If you were to kill the sleipnirs, our town would have nothing. We have raised and trained sleipnir's for a decade or more, and have gotten very good at it, selling and trading them to others for food and supplies."

"I thought you were given seeds to plant," Patrick said.

"The seeds that the bitch that calls herself a mayor in Turtle Town gave us were useless. They didn't grow. After that, the Dakota bastards started raiding trains and farms to get enough food to feed themselves, while the rest of us starved. That first winter… almost a third of us died, and we got weaker and weaker while still serving those bandits." Jenna looked down at her feet as she spoke, as if remembering the bad things that happened back then.

"Those sleipnirs are the only thing that prevent us from being killed outright," she finally said. "Our people are great at breeding, raising, and breaking them, and we can train them to be excellent mounts. If you killed them, you might stop the bandits for a while, but would doom the rest of us. It is the only thing my people know they can do. I know you are not here for us, PatrickMorrison, but please do not kill us as well."

"Alright, is there another way to fight them then? I'll do my best to not kill the sleipnirs if it will help you guys, but I need to stop the attacks on Turtle Town," Patrick explained. "And how many are there?"

"About ten, fifteen or so… not that many. But they are vicious, cold blooded killers." Then she was quiet. While it originally looked like Jenna was trying to think, she began looking up into the sky and mumbling something. Patrick raised an eyebrow, as she heard him say an oath: "Oh Great One, the one that looks over our people, who guides us to greener pastures, and gives us hope when we need it, please aid in my quest now."

"What was that?" Patrick asked.

Derek, until that moment silent, kicked Patrick in the leg. "Quiet PatrickMorrison! When speaking to the Great One, you must never interrupt!"

Patrick grunted, rubbing his calf. Great, they were tribals. Tribals with some strange superstition.

Jenna gasped, and Patrick and Derek turned toward her. "Their ritual!"

Patrick was more confused now. What was Jenna talking about?

She looked to Patrick, with a small smile. "Before they go on a raid, their leader and chief priest presides over a ceremony where they drink a special water they call "firewater," and they say it gives them strength and courage to fight. They each drink a bunch, then they do a dancing ceremony for the spirits, then they take their sleipnir and go to battle."

Patrick thought about it. "Must be alcohol of some kind." Patrick then brightened up. "Do they all drink from the same thing?"

"One large white bowl, where the mix this firewater together. It's kept in the small temple they made until this ceremony, when it's taken out," Jenna explained.

Patrick grinned. "If someone could poison their… um… firewater, then they should all fall over dead as they dance. Just a syringe of Med-X should do more than enough to do it."

Jenna nodded, then frowned. "The problem is that they have the temple guarded all the time. Need to be able to sneak past the guard to get it. Could you do that PatrickMorrison?"

Patrick shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm guessing they mix a bunch of alcohol together, right?"

"Yeah, it's what the leader does, always topping off the bowl. The bottles are inside though the temple though. We were never able to see how they made it."

"Well, we just sneak two more bottles in," Patrick said, pulling out the other bottle of whiskey from his pocket. "Inject Med-X into both of theses, leave them where they will find it, and they will dump it in, mix it up, and then it will be done!"

Patrick swung his backpack of his shoulder, and found the med-kit he carried with him. Inside, he found, just like he hoped, two syringes of Med-X. He injected one into each bottle, and held them up. "Now, we just get this to where they mix the firewater, and then it's all done."

Patrick, Jenna and Derek all sneaked through the forest toward the International Peace Gardens, and reached the brush line where the forest had been cleared out to allow the old-world gardens to be planted, and the tall monument to the long-forgotten peace between the two countries.

Patrick looked behind him, to see the content Aradesh tied to a tree and sniffing at the ground, chewing at the few green-brown sprouts of grass all around. The gelding was close enough to be easy to get after this was done, but far enough away so as to not attract attention.

Derek was very stealthy, barely making a sound as he went through the forest, a bottle of poisoned whiskey in one hand, and his trusty hunting rifle in the other. Jenna wasn't able to keep up as well, but she said she knew how to handle a gun, this one an older service rifle that must have been snatched before she ran off into the forest. Patrick, with the other bottle and his assault rifle, went with Jenna.

When they reached the perimeter, Patrick could see a guard in rough and aged leather armor, with tattoos all over his face, arms and chest. Despite the chilly afternoon, he didn't shiver at the cool breeze. Patrick silently envied him: his entire life living in Assiniboia, and he couldn't handle the weather as well as this tribal did.

The guard was rather impatient, grumbling to himself, most likely about how he was out guarding when there was a raid planned. Jenna said that, although there was only 10 or 12 bandits, two or three would always stay behind, locking up the settlers in a large building until they were all back with their spoils. If he was still here, they wouldn't have left yet.

The guard turned around, and began walking the other way as Derek slowly and carefully sneaked out of the bushes behind him. Patrick and Jenna watched as Derek, despite his youth, expertly came up behind and slapped his hand over the Raider's mouth to muffle any screams, and quickly twisted his head, snapping the raider's neck. The moment of surprise and panic wasn't enough to save the raider, and he instantly went limp, where Derek laid the body on the ground. He kissed his hand, and touched the raiders head, before bowing slightly.

"That's our asking forgiveness from the Great One for taking a life. Even if it's for the greater good, taking a life is not something to take lightly. It will haunt Derek for the rest of his life, and into the afterlife." She paused, looking at a skeptical Patrick. "I know you do not agree with our traditions, PatrickMorrison, but they have helped us, like worshiping your Chris God has helped you."

Patrick was about to correct her, as the Christian religion was the right one. But… he only grunted. He thought all the tribal beliefs were silly, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. At least, not in front of one that just took down a man bigger and stronger than himself, and not when they had more important things to do.

Derek looked over to the bushes, and waved his hand, signaling to Patrick and Jenna that they could leave. Patrick carefully got past the bare bushes, and caught up to Derek, with Jenna following behind.

"The temple is there," he whispered, pointing to a large building that, at one point, must have been an interpretive center for when tourists came to the Peace Gardens.

Patrick nodded. "Well, we split up and go different ways. If one of us is caught, the other should be able to make it. Just need to put the bottles beside the other ones, and he should use them, right?" Derek and Jenna nodded.

"Alright, let's go!" Patrick whispered, and the three split up. Jenna went off to warn the other settlers, so that they knew what was going to happen, and maybe cause a small disturbance to distract attention from the temple.

Patrick made his way past the old buildings and struggling crops. There was no irrigation up here, so that might have been one of the biggest reasons the crops failed. Even though the bright guys at the University of Manitoba in Winnipeg made new crops that could grow with little water, and survive an unexpected snow, they still needed water. He, or someone in Turtle Town, would have to teach the tribals here how to do that later, if they made it through this.

One of the buildings, an old greenhouse, had been turned into a makeshift stable. Some dirty, skinny and downtrodden men and women slowly, weakly, cleared out the dirty stalls and feed the sleipnirs and brahman. Another guard stood over them, gun and tatoos and everything. He turned around, barked something at a dirty figure, then kicked a woman that was moving too slow for his taste. She fell, and slowly got back up, before he kicked her again. She didn't get back up.

Patrick grimaced, but he had to keep moving. He reached the backside of a building across from the temple, and saw the guard standing in front of it. He was perhaps the biggest man he had ever seen: over six and a half feet tall, with muscles that bulged with strength, covered in black, blue, red and green ink in patterns that Patrick couldn't even begin to describe. A thick beard and long, wild hair, as well as fearsome red eyes completed the look of a terrifying monster that this man must have been while in combat. Patrick shuddered, and hoped he would never have to find out.

Patrick continued to watch the front door, every so often looking around to make sure no one was sneaking around him. He was just waiting for the signal…

BANG! A gunshot echoed out, making a few birds in the dead trees all around the park fly off in startled terror. BANG!

Patrick watched the guard look around, and then run off around the temple, followed by some other bandits, all dressed in leather and cloth rags, some with bright beads to show their order in the hierarchy.

With the one guard gone, Patrick took one more look, and made a mad dash to the door, not looking around but sprinting as fast as he could. He skidded to a halt on the stones right before he would slam into the large double doors, and he slowly pushed one open, glad there was no lock on it.

When he got inside, his suspicions were confirmed that it was an old interpretive center for the park. Old paper brochures covered the floor, while a round desk with old computers in the center of the room dominated the room. Old displays on either side, one extolling the valuable friendship between Canada and the US, lay in discarded ruins on the floor all around the room. Would that have been like that even before the War of 2077?

Patrick didn't have time to think about that. He quietly walked around the room. The bowl that Jenna talked about had to be around here somewhere…

He saw some trails on the floor, long straight lines. She did say that the bowl was dragged out, so it must have been on wheels or something. He followed the trails, until he got to another door. He carefully opened it, and slipped inside.

A great big bathtub, rusty but still showing white porcelain, filled up most of the room, and filled with a strong, noxious fumes of a lot of alcohol in a small room. There were only a dozen or so bottles, three each of vodka, whiskey, beer and wine. Patrick picked up one of the bottles of whiskey, and replaced it with his own contaminated one. Patrick slipped out of the room and carefully closed the door again, afraid that any little noise he made could be picked up by a bandit. He looked around, and noticed the room was still empty, but a shadow covered the door again.

"Damn, the guard must be back," he muttered, and looked around. There was an emergency door off to the side, with the sign "Opening Door Will Set Off Alarm" right next to it. Patrick grumbled, and looked around, but except for a few broken and unbroken windows, there was nothing else. He walked over to the door looked closer. It looked like there was no power to the light above it. He knew that the fusion batteries they were using to power those doors were starting to die out now, and the raiders wouldn't have been interested in replacing them. But you never know…

Patrick slowly made his way to the door. He took a deep breath, and pushed on the handle. There was a click, but no sirens went off. Patrick sighed in relief, and pushed it all the way open, and slipped outside.

He made his way to the nearest bunch of trees, and began to make his way through the forest back to where he, Jenna and Derek all came in. It was all going according to plan. At least for him.

A loud scream off to the side made Patrick stop. He looked around and gasped as he saw two bandits dragging a woman behind them. It was Jenna!

Patrick was almost ready to dash out and try to rescue her when a hand touched his shoulder, making Patrick turn around. It was Derek, holding a finger to his lips.

"No. Don't go." Derek said. Patrick was about to argue, but Derek shook his head. "The Great One will help her."

Patrick could see that Derek wanted to go save his mom, but it was clear that, as much as he wanted to, he knew well enough that if he tried, he would be captured like her.

"What will they do to her?" Patrick asked.

"The Great One will help her," is all Derek said, a mantra that must have given him some comfort.

Patrick sighed. "Did you get the bottle in?"

Derek shook his head. "No, they all ran after me after I fired my gun. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry, I got my bottle in."

Derek put his hands together and bowed. "The Great One favors you, PatrickMorrison. You are as smart as a computer, strong as a deathclaw, and brave as a wolf. You are truly blessed."

"What's a deathclaw?" Patrick asked. He'd never heard of that before.

"Big monster. Shrugs off bullets like raindrops. Even the best hunters have trouble taking them down." Derek looked to Patrick. "But you are like that."

Patrick looked away, embarrassed at being praised like he was. He wasn't that smart, that strong, or that brave. He just…

Jenna screamed again, this time inside a building. She was suddenly silent again, and Patrick and Derek looked at each other.

"They must be having their way with her," Patrick said. "I'm so sorry Derek."

"I understand, PatrickMorrison. As soon as the raiders came, that made her their 'sex bitch.' Whenever anyone of them needed to, their would rape her." He was quiet. "Mother was with child many times because of it, but she would talk to the Great One with the Shaman, and then she would not have the child any more. She said it was because she did not want to be the mother to a child raised here, to be abused or turned into raiders like them." He looked down.

Patrick blinked. That… that was terrible. Abortion wasn't illegal in Assiniboia, but the Church didn't exactly like it. They knew sometimes you had to make a choice. But this seemed… worse.

"They already took me and wanted to make me like them. They beat me, attacked me, made me fight other boys. I became strong, and angry. They said I was worthless to my face, to make me angry, but they actually meant I was becoming a great fighter. They always lied like that. If they said I was good, it meant that they were trying to make me let down my guard so they could beat me some more. They were trying to break my belief in the Great One. I… I wavered, but I never broke. Until they had me kill my best friend in a ring fight."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Patrick said after a moment silence.

Derek swallowed. "Nothing you could have done. It was him or me. One of us would be broken.

"But one night, a few weeks ago, Mom broke me out of my training house, and took me out to the forest. We lived there since, always moving. She would never go to the town, knowing that the townspeople would never help her. They never did even before the Dakota Liberation Army started up. I would sneak back here and take some bullets, some guns, some food when they never looked. It helped us survive. But she was always scared when I left, afraid that I would be captured and put back into that room."

Derek stopped talking, and looked down. Patrick didn't say a word, not knowing what he could say. Would the people in Turtle Town have helped Jenna and Derek? He didn't know. Clarice clearly didn't have a great opinion of the tribals, thinking they were the bandits attacking the town. Maybe Patrick could convince her and the town otherwise?

After a long time and as the sun began to set toward the west and made the shadows from the trees and the two pronged monument stretch longer and longer, Derek pushed Patrick's shoulder. "The ceremony will begin soon."

Patrick nodded. "When it happens, we should be ready to kill them before they try to kill any of the others." Derek grunted in agreement, and his face went into a hostile, violent mode. He had some revenge to get, Great One or no.

The two men got up, and slowly made their way to either side of the stable. Already bandits were herding the people together to watch the ceremony, and the leader of the band was walking out of the temple with two slaves pulling the bowl. When it reached the right spot, he stopped and the two slaves stopped as well, making sure to do so slowly so as to not allow any of the firewater to spill.

The leader raised his hand, and began talking in the language of his tribe. It was a mixture of actual English words, and some that were made up.

"Night comes, we drink holy firewater, we fight weakers! Night, we kill iron sleipnir in their town!" the fighters cheered, and the impoverished settlers, surrounded by the fearsome Dakota Liberation Army, gave a weak, half-hearted cheer. Anyone that didn't would get a rifle butt to the head, as one old man got.

Patrick's eyes went wide. If they destroyed the train engine, then Turtle Town would have no train for a long time, not to mention that the tracks would be ruined for a long time to come, and cut off Melita, Metigoshe and other towns to the west.

He sure hoped the bottle of poisoned whiskey got dumped in.

The fighters lined up, and were each given a glass to drink, the leader being first. He dipped his dirty glass into the strong smelling water, and raised it to his hips, swallowing it. After him, the other nine bandits there also took their glass and drank.

Patrick watched, waiting. They drank a second, then a third glass. A couple were just getting the forth when one bandit gasped and gagged, another clutched at his chest then fell, unmoving. The leader's eyes went wide.

"Firewater… kill us!" he gasped, falling to one knee. "Bad guy, traitor, killus!" He croaked, and fell over, followed by the other ones.

The three bandits that didn't drink the firewater including the big guard from the temple, all cried out in shock. "Bad guy! Traitor! Killus!" they screamed out, running toward the assembled group of people, terrified, surprised, and some were even excited, at watching their captors die in front of them. But as the last guards charged up to start killing the slaves, they began to scream.

Patrick jumped out now from behind the shadows, the R91 assault rifle in hand. He fired a burst in the air, stopping the raiders in their tracks.

"Dakota Liberation Army! I am these people's protector, and I have come to lay vengeance on what you have done to them! By the power invested in me by The Great One, I am the fury, the oncoming storm, the destroyer of worlds, and you will not survive!" Patrick shouted at the top of his lungs. "If you dare try to kill a single person here right now, you will not live to see the dawn!"

The three bandits, shocked and quaking at the sudden appearance and the forceful cry of Patrick, screamed like little girls, dropped their guns, and ran away. As they turned to run, a gunshot rang out, and one of them fell. Another gunshot, and the temple guard collapsed to the ground. A third shot, and the last one crumbled like a deflating balloon.

Patrick looked behind him, Derek working the bolt on his rifle after those three expertly places shots. Patrick shouldered his gun, and walked to the front of the crowd, the malnourished and starving people making way for him in awe.

He turned around to face them. "My name is Patrick Morrison, and I am a Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police Auxiliary. With the help give to me by Jenna and Derek, I have come to help you, and free you from the Dakota Liberation Army.

"If you come with me, I will take you north to Turtle Town, where you will be welcomed with open arms. I will promise you that. Take your sleipnirs, you brahmin, your possessions, and we will leave this cursed place for good," Patrick said. They just looked at him, before they began to clap and cheer him. Patrick smiled: the cheers, the chorus of "Thank you!" "Praise the Great One!" and a dozen other things made him feel better, and glad that he helped them.

Some of them came up to him, and clasped his hands, while other went to the others, and began to beat on the dead bodies, unleashing their anger. Patrick turned around to see Derek was kneeling at the three raiders he killed, kissing his fingers and touching their forehead.

Patrick, making his way from the adoring people, went over to Derek, who was giving his blessing to the last body. "Should we go check to see if your mother is okay?"

Derek paused, and then finished the ritual, standing up. "The Great One will help her," he said once more, his tone of voice different than before. "She said she would take her own life if she was ever captured again. She never wanted to be their sex bitch again."

Patrick said nothing, but rested a hand on Derek's shoulder. The young man, after a lifetime of brutality, survival and struggle, doing everything he could to remain strong, broke down and began to cry into Patrick's shoulder.

Pip-Boy 3000 InfoTracker Note #983

 **Guide for Settling in Assiniboia**

Prepared by the Department of Outposts, Settlement and Repopulation, 2186

So you want to start a new settlement in Assiniboia under the guidelines of the Settlement Act of 2124? Congratulations! The Dominion Government is pleased to send you two Brahmin wagons of food, building materials, a monthly Dominion Settlement Payment of 100 Assiniboian Pounds, and this handy, five step program to help you on your way to building the next boom town!

1\. **Make sure you are close to transportation**. It is important that you know where the closest river, train or Old World Highway is located so that you can easily reach the rest of the country, as well as ensure supplies, caravans and more people can make their way to your new humble village, because the Dominion government cannot build roads to every single little settlement and town, especially the newer ones. If you aren't sure where would be a good place, contact the local District Office in the area you are looking at settling for help.

2\. **Ensure there are resources nearby that can be used or sold**. Many towns that are set up do not have a decent resource base, arable land, or some other means to allow them to thrive for very long will die quickly. Without a source of income after the Dominion Settlement Payments end, your town will fail. Keep that in mind!

3\. **Build houses and stores as quickly as possible**. Many settlements fail when they are more focused on building hospitals, tourist attractions and schools before sheltering themselves. Don't neglect the basic essentials like a place to keep warm or a place to buy food that you are presumably selling. Remember that we don't want economic freeloaders in our nation! Follow the instructions in Attachment A (for sale at any District Office for £99) to learn how to build simple houses that have been tested to survive Assiniboia's climate.

4\. **Plant food crops**. Many towns believe they can survive on other businesses besides farming. However, this is a risky choice, and if your little tourist attraction fails or the mine that you have dug fails, where will you be? Starving, that's what! So plant some corn, carrots and wheat, and ration the food and don't eat it all at once.

5\. **Have fun!** Remember, as the Mayor of your new town, it's not all work and no play. Build a baseball park or something to insure that your people won't get angry, especially if the crops fail, bandits attack, or the town was actually built on an old world nuclear waste site. Though, at that point it will be a good idea to build that hospital too!

Remember that Assiniboia is looking out and beyond, filling in the many empty spaces on our maps. So get out there, and start building a town today!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Jenna was buried, as per the custom, in a five-foot deep hole next to the biggest tree they could find, to allow her spirit to climb the tree to reach the Great One. Patrick just watched as the settlers from Chicago, despite their visible hunger and weakness, still took care of one of their own.

Patrick also noticed that the bodies of the bandits were all unceremoniously dumped into their temple, and once the other ramshackle buildings were tore down and placed around it like kindling, it was burnt down with the aid of a box of matches Patrick had in his backpack. There wasn't many cheers, as their pacifist ideology did not like kindly on killing, though there was a sense of relief and gratification that the Dakota Liberation Army was gone, and they were safe. Apparently beating dead bodies was okay, but actually making them dead was not.

Tribals were odd sometimes.

Demon was found and returned to Patrick. The "black beast," as the tribals had been starting to call him, was feared for his temper, and had already nearly killed three of them. But when Patrick's sleipnir had been brought to him, he quieted down and was more content to be with it's owner again.

One boy was sent to the forest to get Aradesh, while the rest of the refugees continued to pack their few belongings to make the trek north to Turtle Town. Most people didn't have much: just the clothes on their back, a memento or heirloom of their past, some food. The men and the older boys who had once rode sleipnirs to herd and ranch their animals saddled up again, and started to get the Brahmin ready to move. Patrick had already mentioned that since most of them were captured, that they should be returned to the farmers. He also promised to do what he could to make sure that the settlers would get something to start again, this time closer to town.

Amidst everything going on, Derek stood apart from everyone else, slowly and methodically cleaning his hunting rifle, stripping it apart, and reassembling it. When it was back together, Derek simply began taking his gun back apart again.

Patrick, getting himself away from the crowd, walked over to Derek. As Patrick got closer, people stopped coming to him, and many turned around and went back, muttering and cursing under their breath.

"Where did everyone go?" Patrick asked as he got up to the mourning youngster, pulling Demon behind him. "Why are you by yourself?"

"I'm tainted, PatrickMorrison. Because I was captured and forced to be trained as a raider, and that I've killed, I've gone against the beliefs of my tribe," he said, sighing. "It's the last thing I want, but I'm an outsider now." He looked up.

"But you helped get rid of the people that was attacking them. Don't they know that?" Patrick asked.

"Maybe. But it's complicated. They still know I'm one of them and it was against my will, but I've been taken so far from them, the path to becoming whole again… it's a long one. And I do not want to go on the path yet."

"Well… couldn't I just tell them to take you back? They seem to be listening to me. And why did they bury your mom if they won't take you in?"

Derek gave a small laugh. "My mom, although she had been tainted by the Dakota Liberation Army, redeemed herself fully by taking her own life. They might take me back, but I couldn't go back to a life of farming. Those raiders… they made me a fighter, as much as I never should have been. I'm useless for my people now, PatrickMorrison. They don't fight. They only hunt if they need to. I'm no use, even if they did take me back. But they won't. Not for a long time. If ever."

"Please, just call me Patrick. It's easier." Patrick sat on a bench near Derek. "So, what are you going to do now?"

Derek shrugged. "I don't know. If I go up to Assiniboia, what could I do? No one trusts a tribal, especially one that can shoot a gun. I remember how the people in Turtle Town treated my mother and elders when they first asked for help." He paused, and looked south, past the dead trees of the park. "Or I go south. Back to Chicago, or… Can-s-us. However that's pronounced. Of course, the Brotherhood of Steel front line there would rather kill me as a spy than let me go by." He laughed bitterly. "Funny, no? Up here, I'm Southern scum. Down there, I'm Northern scum. No in-between."

Patrick and Derek sat in silence, listening to the low moo of the Brahmin or the nicker and whiney of a sleipnir.

"You could come with me," Patrick said. "I'm on a… quest I guess you could say, to find my brother."

Derek looked up. "Really? Why would you want a simple tribal to go with you?"

Patrick smiled. "Why not? You are good with a gun, and I can always use someone to keep me company. Demon here isn't exactly easy to talk with." The sleipnir snorted as he chewed on some tough grass, as if mocking Patrick. "And you're not a simple tribal. I'm not going to let you starve or die." Patrick looked up as the boy he sent earlier to get Aradesh came back with the calm white and grey sleipnir in tow. The boy handed the reins to Patrick, took a wary look at Derek, and ran off.

"Plus, if you help me, I'm sure you can restore your reputation with your people."

Derek watched the boy with sad eyes, and sighed. "Maybe. But yes, I will come with you for now."

Patrick grinned. "Alright, we are going to take these guys up to Turtle Town, then we will carry on. It can't be that much of a problem, right?"

"You did what?" exclaimed Clarice Fairbank after they got back to Turtle Town early the next morning, fifty seven famished, tired and dirty men, women and children in tow. Patrick had went into the hotel to talk to Clarice, only to find the town's mayor in something close to rage.

"I wasn't going to leave them there to starve!" Patrick shouted back. "These people have been through enough…"

"They attacked us. And you want us to now welcome them with open arms?" Clarice rolled her eyes and groaned. "If I did that, the rest of the town will lynch me along with the rest of them."

"They were not the ones to attack you. These people wouldn't hurt a radgopher unless it attacked them first! And even then, I'd think they'd let it maul them." Patrick tried to explain. "Another group of tribals came and enslaved them. Those ones that are dead now were the ones who kept attacking you."

Clarice continued staring at Patrick, unblinking. "I don't know if I can believe that."

"Well you sure as hell haven't come truthfully either. They asked for your help before, and you gave them shit," Patrick said. "So now here I am, trying to solve your problems, and you are saying you can't help me help them now?"

"It was all we could spare."

"Says the person that offered me 500 Pounds,"

Clarice blinked. "Oh, right. Well…"

Patrick paused. "You don't have it?"

"Well… not anymore. I had to spend it to get the Sleipnir," Clarice said.

Patrick grimaced. "So, you tricked me."

"What are you talking about?"

"You took advantage of me."

Clarice recoiled. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You needed me to be your errand boy, and you got a little action on the side to, so bonus points for you," Patrick growled. "And what the hell did I get? Embarrassment, shot at, and now basically told off for trying to help some people that have had nothing but shit happen to them."

Clarice reached under the bar and grabbed a wad of rolled up banknotes, tossing them at Patrick. "Here. Five hundred Pounds, like I promised."

"I don't care about the money anymore," Patrick said, tossing it back, landing on the bartop with a thud. "Just show a little humanity and help some people."

She looked at the wad of money on the table, then turned aways. "I'm Sorry Patrick, but we can't accept them."

Patrick stood there. "So… what do I tell them? That Assiniboia is not the shining beacon it presents itself? A place where good people live, and do good things for those that need it?"

Clarice chortled. "You seriously believe that drivel?" She turned around again, facing Patrick. "Of course, you're from Melita. It's 'important, a trading post with the outside world, so it gets some RAMP guys and a battalion if things really go wrong. We had our RAMP officers taken away because of some pound-scrapers in Winnipeg, and we sure as hell wouldn't get two soldiers."

For a long moment they stood there, staring at each other. "Fine then." Patrick turned on his heel, and marched out the door, pulling it open on rusty hinges. Before leaving, he turned back to the mayor. "I hope you can live with this, considering what your grandfather did."

"Fuck you!" she screamed, grabbing a bottle and throwing it at Patrick. Patrick jumped out of the way, and the half full bottle of vodka crashed on the floor. Tears were running down her face.

Patrick slammed the door shut.

Patrick walked over to where the village elder, a small woman named Liza, sat on an old stool, giving instructions and guidance to the people around her.

"Liza, may I speak with you?" Patrick asked as she finished showing two young kids how to attach two pieces of leather together.

She patted the kids on the head, who excitedly ran off. Patrick knelt down to be closer to her and to keep the conversation quiet. "What do you wish, PatrickMorrison?"

Patrick bit his lip. "I have some bad news for you."

Liza held up a wrinkled hand, tough from years of labor. "Say no more. We have had a small council, and we have decided that we will go west anyway, into old… Sack-achoo-wan? Whatever that place is, we will go west, away from Assiniboia."

Patrick sighed. "I'm sorry I can't help you more."

"No need to be sorry, PatrickMorrison. You have done more than enough already to save us. Hopefully, maybe, we can go out there and build a village where we can be by ourselves, and not have to fight."

Patrick nodded. "I wish you the best in that goal then."

Before Liza could reply, an older man in rags came up, his eyes bloodshot, his body shaking as if he was suffering from drug withdrawal. "Oh Hero of our People, Savior of the North Wasteland! I wish to give you something in payment of your deeds!"

Patrick raised an eyebrow, and turned to Liza, who watched the old man with respect.

"This is Morrow, our shaman and healer. He has the ability to see beyond the present and give us knowledge for the future."

Patrick didn't say anything, but inwardly he cringed. A shaman that can tell the future? Really? Tribals believed the strangest things… And where was he when they were going to find out that they would be enslaved?

"PatrickMorrison, your tale has already been told to me by the Great One. You are a hero destined to bring down those that are corrupt and evil, bring the hidden into the light, and give voice and freedom to the poor. You are destined for great things, though the cost will be high, for you and those you love. But fear not, for your tale will bring hope to the people as long as the sun rises and the rivers flow."

Patrick looked at Morrow confused. "How…"

"I cannot tell you how to do it, nor can I tell you how it happens. But just know that you will accomplish much, even if it was not what you set out to do." The shaman bowed. "Now I must take my leave. Good future, PatrickMorrison. May the water you find not glow in the night."

The shaman walked away, and vanished into the crowd. Patrick was left to sit there, confused. Liza just turned to Patrick, a smile on her face.

"Cryptic, yes. But his prophecies have been shown to be true in the full extent of time."

Patrick shrugged his shoulders and stood up. "Anyway, I must be going. I have things I got to get done."

Liza nodded. "Take care, PatrickMorrison. We shall sing of your heroic deeds for generations to come."

Patrick began to walk away, to where Derek sat on Aradesh. Old Man Dickinson, unlike most of the other townsfolk, was so glad that the raiders were defeated that he gave Aradesh to Patrick, which was now the mount for his companion. Derek sat up and looked to Patrick.

"Where now?"

Patrick pointed to the train station, where the rusty locomotive was already starting to be revved up. "Back on the train, and on to where I was originally going to go, Vault H near Winnipeg." Derek nodded, and as Patrick climbed up on Demon, they both made their way over to the old wooden building.

The next morning the train took off, leaving bright and early at 7:30 AM. Patrick and Derek, as per the former's RAMP Auxiliary position, snagged themselves a sleeping coach on the train for the night, despite the station manager's best efforts to convince him to go back to Clarice's hotel. Patrick, using the most diplomatic words he could find, finally managed to convince the train man.

Taking the southern line from Turtle Town, Patrick, Derek and their sleipnirs made good time, taking only 12 hours to go from Turtletown, through Killarney (an old pre-war town that was now a lake-side resort), to William's Point (one of the more successful towns established by Assiniboia), where they had to switch trains. After a full day on the train, Patrick was stiff and sore, but they had to quickly change over to the next train on to Mord-Wink (the conglomerate of two pre-war towns) that was leaving in an hour. After Mord-Wink, the train line would continue north until it reached Morris, where it branched off two more ways: north to Winnipeg, and south to Atwood, which in the Pre-War of 2077 world was one of the most important border towns in Manitoba. From there, a train line would go on the east side of the Red River up to Vault H, and Patrick's destination.

Derek, having never been on anything faster than a galloping sleipnir, looked out the window of the train with wide-eyes almost the entire time, making comments of each town, farm, herd of Brahmin or pack of radgophers he saw when he wasn't eating or sleeping. Dozens of villages and small towns, built in the early years of the first settlement of this area and when the train first went through, were either gone or just piles of broken wood and concrete, streets that had reverted back to simple prairie, and maybe a broken light post to symbolize that, at one point, a town full of people once lived here. After the War of 2077, with the breakdown of law and order, not to mention easy transportation with the outside world, most people packed up and moved to larger towns, if they survived. Someday, Assiniboia claimed, they would repopulate all of old Manitoba, but that was still a long time in the making.

Patrick could only smile as the tribal excitedly remarked about everything he saw through the glass of the moderately comfortable passenger car they were in. He was just like a little kid.

Like Zach. Seeing Derek, 18 years old, and seeming like he had never seen anything before made Patrick realize that Zach was still out there. Somewhere…

Patrick looked away, not wanting to think about his brother, and the fact that he was either in the slave pits in Brandon on forced into military service with the BoS, or who knew what else. Instead, he started fiddling with his Pip-Boy, reading some of the messages that had accumulated. Most of them were rubbish, things he knew already, a couple that were a mass of scrambled letters or corrupted files, and a couple actually interesting files.

One button, much to Patrick's surprise, brought up a radio screen, and started playing some soap opera on Brandon General Radio. Patrick groaned as one female unleashed some horrifying twist on her boyfriend, which of course meant the show could continue on tomorrow, same time.

Patrick instead selected the DBS broadcast, as it was a bit after 4 PM, so the afternoon programming would still be going on.

The tail end of the DBS jingle played, which meant that Patrick had actually missed the news. He silently cursed himself for that as a deep booming voice replaced it. "From the DBS Studios in Winnipeg, this is Hot Topic with Jacob Coyote."

A raspy voice took over. "It's May 12, 2218, and thank you for joining me." Jacob Coyote, most likely not his real name, was one of the only Ghouls this far north in Assiniboia, and it was more because he was, if he was what he claimed to be, a political talk show host in Ottawa before the war, and he survived thanks to his mutation. The show only started a couple years ago, but quickly became one of the more popular programs on the channel. Even Patrick listened to it every so often, if for no other reason than DBS usually had better programming than anything else on the radio.

"Today, since it's Thursday, you know that means that we are going to look at your letters and radiograms you sent in to me, and I will be discussing it with our special guest, RC – er – RAMP Commissioner Jennifer Raymond. Thank you for joining me today."

"My pleasure Jacob," a soft voice spoke, much to Patrick's surprise. He'd thought the head of the RAMP would have been the biggest, baddest son-of-a-bitch the force had to offer; yet she sounded like a waiter at a snooty restaurant.

"Now, the first question I have, as a lot of the messages we have gotten in the past couple of days have all been about the 'Auxiliary,' an agent with the RAMP that managed to defeat raiders and bandits in Turtle Mountain. Can you tell us anything about him?"

Patrick's eyes widened as he realized they were about to start talking about him!

"Well, only a few days ago, there was an attack on different towns by a series of coordinated raiders. I don't know the backstory of the man you guys here want to call 'The Auxiliary,' but I will confirm that, yes, he is a volunteer to the Force, and yes, he actually did liberate the town of Waskada."

"And only one person did this?"

"That is correct."

Patrick gave a small smile. Sure, he dealt with the raiders in Waskada, but his brother was still missing. So it was a partial victory.

"Why did the RAMP have to rely on an Auxiliary for this admittedly dangerous role?" Jacob continued. "Could there not have been a better option than sending an ill trained Civilian in to do this?"

"As far as I can tell, the Auxiliary went to Waskada by his own volition, and was not a volunteer of the force at the time. He was asked after the fact to join as a RAMP Auxiliary."

"So what is he up to now?"

"That is classified as of now. DBS will be the first to find out, if we are allowed to reveal that what he may accomplish. But I have been told that he has already done a lot more than just defeated some raiders, and he has many skills that will be of use to the RAMP and Assiniboia in the future."

ABC then went to a commercial break, and Patrick shut off the radio.

"What the hell have I gotten myself into now?" he asked under his breath.

"What did you say PatrickMorrison? And do you have one of those talking boxes on your arm?" Derek asked, having snapped awake when he heard Patrick speak.

"Nothing, and yes," Patrick replied, surprised at how quick Derek sat up. He was a pretty good hunter, so he must not ever get a good deep sleep.

"All the talking boxes back south only spewed lies and hate," he said, looking at the Pip-boy on Patrick's arm uneasily. "But who is this Auxiliary they speak of?"

"Well… I'll tell you later," Patrick said.

The rest of the train ride to Mord-Wink was quiet, with Patrick starting to doze off, and eventually fell asleep. The steam engine came a metal-grinding, screeching halt, which made Patrick start awake.

He blinked, looking out the window to see the sign of the town they were at, flapping back and forth. Patrick noticed that it looked like two halves of two different signs that had been fused to make one new one. Made sense for a town that was basically the conglomeration of two other towns that existed before the War of 2077.

"Wind must be picking up," Patrick said to Derek.

"Rad-Storm. Tonight. I can feel it," Derek replied.

Patrick grimaced. Rad-Storms were not fun: a greenish haze of a fog from Radiation Alley came north every so often, with bright flashes of lightning and either rain or snow, depending on the weather. And since Patrick could see frost on the window, it meant it was going to snow.

"Well, as long as we keep going, then the Rad-storm shouldn't bother us," Patrick said.

"Saying things like that outloud is a great way to jinx things, PatrickMorrison," Derek said.

As if an answer to a question that wasn't even asked, the conductor, with a thick bushy mustache, polished brass buttons and dark blue coat came by then, clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry folks, but the train will be having to lay up here for the night," the conductor said, his British accent giving the statement a powerful authority.

"Oh." Patrick said, his heart sinking. Derek smirked.

"There's a broken down engine further up the line, and this engine is needed to pull that other one back," the conductor continued. "The train will be continue on to Mord-Wink tomorrow, but the UAR will put you up in the local inns and hotels overnight, so gather your belongings, please and thank you!" The conductor tipped his blue hat and carried on.

Patrick turned to Derek. "Don't say a thing."

Derek continued to grin, packing his few belongings, and following Patrick off the train.

The climbed onto the platform, and Patrick instantly regretted not getting a winter jacket, or even an overcoat. The wind had a cold bite to it, and he swore he felt a snowflake land on his cheek.

The other passengers, about four dozen men, women and children or so, quickly streamed into the train station, and from there were directed to places where they could sleep for the night by uniformed UAR staff.

"Did you see this?" one woman asked another woman just a couple or so years older than her, pointing a bulletin board on the wall. "Lots of missing people posters there."

"Eh, I bet most of them are just folks that wanted to leave this crappy town," the older woman sniffed.

Patrick glanced at the wall, and noticed that most of there were young men, and they weren't exactly all from around Mord-Wink.

Patrick and Derek were directed to Don and Hanny's Hotel once they found out that Patrick was affiliated with the RAMP (though Patrick didn't tell them he was the Auxiliary mentioned on the radio). Their sleipnir's, the railroad workers assured, would be taken care of.

The hotel was a two story brick building, one that was aged, but clearly built after the War of 2077, but had a recent fresh coat of paint and it seemed to be holding together fairly well. Inside, the entrance was cozy, comfortable and decently furnished, with electric lights and couches and chairs that were all of the same style and didn't look like they had been made over 140 years before. Several other people with their suitcases mingled in the entrance, while two men worked behind the main desk to sort sleeping arrangements for the sudden influx of stranded train passengers. The men looked almost like copies of each other: same height, same tall, lanky frame, same extremely white and pale skin, and even the same style of black hair. Only one wore a blue suit, the other a green suit.

"Hello, and welcome to Don and Hanny's Hotel. I'm Don," man in the blue suit said, giving a very large smile that seemed almost too friendly. "How can I help you?"

"Just a room for the night, please," Patrick said, showing off the RAMP badge he had been given.

Don looked at the badge, nodded, then over the papers on his desk. "We only have a few rooms available, and they have only one bed. Will that be fine for you gentlemen?"

Patrick looked over to Derek, who gave a shrug. "I… guess so," Patrick said, looking back to Don.

Don turned around to the wall, which indeed only have a couple keys on the many pegs, and grabbed one. "Room 16, on the first floor. Just down the hall, and to the left. Dinner will be prepared for 7 pm. Some of the best meat you will ever taste," Don said with a rather large smile.

Patrick felt a bit awkward and uneasy, but he took the key and followed the instructions he was given.

"Bad vibrations here," Derek said. "It's almost as if the Great One is screaming at us to leave."

"Yeah, something seems off here," Patrick admitted. "But with the Rad-storm and the lack of a train, I think we are kind of stuck here."

They found their room, and unlocked the door and walked in. The rooms looked just as comfortable as the lobby, including electric lights and a somewhat new bed and chairs.

Patrick took the chance to go take a bath, the first one in almost a week, while Derek tried to get some rest. When Patrick got back, wearing clean clothes that had been folded at the bottom of his suitcase, Derek was still lying on the bed.

"There's… something," Derek said.

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"Something feels odd here. I just can't think of what it is."

Patrick shrugged. "I don't know. Don did seem a bit too friendly, but you can't accuse a person who runs a hotel of being too nice."

"Or he's a wolf in brahmin skin," Derek said, looking around nervously. "Maybe we should go somewhere else."

Patrick was about to say something when his Pip-Boy began to chime, and a moment later a siren began to wail. It was a steady blast that went for a few minutes.

"Well, that's out of the question. The rad-storm is here," Patrick said. He could already hear the rumble and crack of thunder. A green haze began to creep along the ground and the air outside.

There was no going anywhere tonight.

Derek decided not to go for supper, leaving Patrick to make the trek to the dining room by himself. This time, it was the other man, Hanny, in his green suit, that welcomed Patrick and the other guests.

"The cooks are just finishing up," Hanny said when an older, well dressed man and woman asked when supper would be. "If you would just find a seat, you'll be served soon."

Patrick found himself at a table with the man and woman, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick from Winnipeg out visiting family at Killarney, and another man named Philip Harsford, an executive of the Rediboine Trading Company who had an air of pomp and superiority. Patrick introduced himself as well, and that he was with the RAMP. Patrick remembered seeing them on the train, but they were in the First Class compartment, while he had to make do with Second before.

"Ahh, so like that Auxiliary fellow the DBS has been talking about?" Mrs. Frederick asked. Patrick nearly choked on the glass of water he was drinking. "Do you know him? Are the stories true?"

"Oh honey, don't pressure the young man," Mr. Frederick said.

"No, no, it's fine," Patrick replied with a small croak. "But something like that, yes."

"So what do you do with the RAMP?" Mrs. Frederick asked.

"I'm sorry, but I can't say," Patrick replied, much to the woman's disappointment.

"I think it's all a joke," Philip announced, interrupting. "I bet the raider camp was all made up. It's all just to make the politicians in Winnipeg give money to the RAMP so they can waste it. Something that the DBS made up to make everyone else suck up to the government."

Yep, he's from the Rediboine Trading Company, Patrick thought, with a scowl. Rediboine may be the largest caravan and shipping operators in Assiniboia, but the company seemed to accumulate those that questioned authority, conspiracy theorists, and those that would rather listen to the "real facts" that were really anything but.

Didn't help that they also once basically controlled Assiniboia, so not very many people trusted them anymore, which is why people that didn't cared what other's thought would join them, forming a vicious cycle.

Patrick wanted to say something, especially about how he killed a bunch of those raiders that took his brother, but a waiter in a black suit came up, with four plates precariously balanced on his arms, which he placed in front of the diners. So instead of beating down the Rediboine trader, he attacked the steak with a gusto, along with the mashed potatoes, vegetables and salad. It had been a while since he had such a good meal.

Small talk continued through the meal. The Frederick's were from an older family in Winnipeg, and had a large house on Wellington Crescent, and Mr. Frederick was also Major Frederick, having retired from the Army several years before. Most of what Patrick knew about Wellington Crescent was that it was where the richest people in Assiniboia lived, and it was the setting of a soap opera that his grandma listened to all the time.

Patrick wasn't sure if the gossip Mrs. Frederick talked about was as outlandish as what was on the radio play, but he wouldn't have been surprised. Mr. Frederick just sat there and smiled the entire time, looking over to Patrick saying that only a fraction of what his wife said was actually true.

After a dessert of some of the best cake Patrick had tasted in years, he excused himself and went back to his room, full and tired after a long day. When he pushed open the door, he was surprised first of all of the lack of light in the room. Second, he realized that Derek wasn't in the room.

"Where the hell has he gone?" Patrick muttered, turning around to find himself face to face with Don, creepy smile and all.

"Damnit!" Patrick exclaimed. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"I'm very sorry for that," the man in the blue suit said, the creepy smile still on his face.

"But I'm glad your hear. My… companion. He's disappeared."

"Huh, that is odd," Don replied. "I haven't heard of anyone leaving. Did he know anyone from around the area?"

"Highly doubt it. He's a tribal from the old Peace Gardens," Patrick said.

Don nodded. "Well he should be around the hotel somewhere." He gave that grin again, making a chill go down Patrick's back. "I'll talk to my brother, see if we can't find him for you."

"Uh, thanks," Patrick said. Don backed out of the room with a slight limp, closing the door behind him, and plunging the room into darkness.

Patrick grumbled, groping along the walls to find the lightswitch. When he found the little lever, he flipped it, and turned back around.

It was then that Patrick saw that the room was a wreck. The bed was a mess, missing a couple sheets, while Patrick's 10mm pistol was on the floor. Patrick picked it up, opening the magazine to see that four bullets was missing. He looked around, seeing three in the wall toward the door, and after a moment he saw one in the roof as well. The mirror on the dresser was broken too.

Patrick also noticed a small trail of blood along the floor, as well as a ripped shirt, half of which was still covered in blood.

"This isn't good," Patrick said, holstering the 10mm in his pocket, grabbing a couple more magazines from his backpack, along with his 44. Magnum revolver. He dashed out of the room, and down the hallway back to the dining room.

Mr. and Mrs. Frederick and Philip Harsford were still at the table, talking. Mr. Frederick looked up to see Patrick nearly running to their table. "What's the matter?"

"Something has gone wrong. The man I was traveling with, Derek, has disappeared, and it looks like it had been a fight in our room," Patrick explained.

"We never heard anything during dinner, did we?" Mr. Frederick asked, to which his wife shook her head.

"I remembered seeing him at the station. Tribal was he?" Mr. Frederick asked. Patrick nodded hesitantly, but the man let it sit there. Patrick knew many folks that would have just said "good riddance" then and there, but Mr. Frederick was not that kind of man, clearly.

"Huh, this sounds like trouble," Philip said, though much more excited than any normal person should have been under the circumstances. Rediboine people were oddballs, for sure.

"If it isn't too much trouble, could I get your help to find him? I'm sure he'd still be in the hotel, with the Rad-Storm coming," Patrick said.

Mr. Frederick turned to his wife, who after a moment nodded. "Very well, I will help."

"And I'll come too," Philip said, a grin on his face. "I'm always up for an adventure, even if it's in a dingy hotel."

The three men left the dining room, and searched each floor in turn. However, no one that they met had seen anyone else, most having been eating at the time. The staff were notoriously tight lipped, not saying much of anything at all.

"This whole place gives me the heeby-jeebies," Mr. Frederick said. "It's nice and all, but the people are just… off."

Patrick nodded. "Ain't that the truth? I had Don, the guy in a blue suit, just appear behind me, as if out of thin air."

Philip growled. "It was him. Him and his brother. I just know it."

"And what evidence do you have of that?" Patrick asked.

"It's in my gut. I just know it," Philip stated.

"Good enough to just accuse someone of being in the wrong, but you need evidence," Patrick replied.

"And that is why you let yourself be lead around by the lap dog RAMP and their Winnipeg masters, eh? Because you'd rather just ignore your feeling for what they just say is right, even if it's wrong?" Philip blasted back, going on a fine tuned rant that he must have used time and time before.

"Hey! Easy you two!" Mr. Frederick said, stepping between them. "We still need to find Derek, and get to the bottom of this. Maybe Don or Hanny could shed some light on what happened, now couldn't he?"

Patrick nodded. "Let's go."

They walked up to the front desk, where Hanny, impeccable green suit and all, was busy organizing things on the front desk. He looked up as the small group of men walked up. "What can I help you with?" That creepy smile again

"I'm looking for a missing person," Patrick said, flashing his badge. Hanny's smile slipped.

"O-of course officer," Hanny said. "What do you need?"

"Do you know what happened to my partner, Derek?" Patrick asked.

"Don't know who that is," Hanny said. "But I hope you do find him."

Philip growled, reaching for a pistol that was under his jacket. "Oh don't you give me that! Where the fuck did you take him?"

Patrick turned to Philip, furious, but Hanny gave a high pitched scream. "Okay! Okay! We took the tribal, alright? Just don't shoot me!" He said, cowering.

"Just as I thought," Philip said. "Get out of there, and take us to him."

Patrick, Mr. Frederick and Philip marched Hanny through the now empty dining room and straight to the swinging doors into the kitchen. Cooks and staff were busy cleaning after the meal for the night, and some were preparing to call it a night, laughing and chatting as they worked.

"Hey! What are you doing here?" a female cook barked, pointing at Patrick with a knife. "Get out! Staff only!"

"RAMP business," Patrick replied, pulling out his badge, and not so subtly revealing his pistol on his hip. "And Hanny here is letting us look around here, right?" The green suited man nodded meekly, before directing Patrick to the freezer door. He walked up to it, pulled open the door, and gasped at the sight.

Derek was there, arms and legs bound, mouth gagged, hanging from his tied up feet from a meat hook. His eyes were closed, and it looked like he was dead. And there was several other people, all in various states of mutilation, hanging in a row. Arms, legs, heads, and bones of all sorts laid carefully, neatly in piles and rows in the ice box.

"Good God!" Mr. Frederick exclaimed, staring at the sight inside.

Patrick could feel his supper coming up as he realized that the delicious steak he ate that night was actually human. Patrick bent down and felt at Derek's neck.

Derek's eyes shot open, and he looked to Patrick, Patrick fell backwards, trying to catch his breath. But he realized that Derek was still alive. Patrick slipped the gag off of Derek's mouth.

"PatrickMorrison," Derek wheezed as he tried to breath. "I-I should have went with you for supper."

Patrick shook his head. "No. Because I really wish I didn't have what was on the menu now." Patrick reached for his pocket knife, and cut the rope around Derek's arms, and then the one around Derek's feet. The tribal fell to the ground in a heap, tired and exhausted after hanging upside down for so long, his legs and arms bruised where the ropes were tied.

Patrick lead Derek out of the freezer, and into the kitchen. Mr. Frederick had been sick already, vomiting to the side. Philip held his gun to Hanny's head, and Don was standing at the other end of the kitchen, having come in when he heard the commotion moments before

"You all do know that cannibalism is illegal in Assiniboia, right?" Patrick asked.

"That is just an old-world morality issue that had long since gone," Don replied from the side of the room, walking up to Patrick. "What use is the morals and beliefs of a world that has long ago been destroyed?"

"And why should we be restrained from using all the resources of the world to rebuild? Even our own bodies?" Hanny asked.

Philip growled. "Because fucking human decency says you shouldn't kill someone just to eat them!"

"And you are all under arrest," Patrick said. "As soon as the Rad-Storm is over, you are all going to face justice." Patrick turned to Hanny and Don. "Post-War, Assiniboian Justice."

Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #89

A Traveler's Guide to Assiniboia: Weather

By: Ben the Roving Ghoul

One of the most unique things that you will find when you go up north is the weather. Of course, for any person that has lived in the old United States, you'd be used to the sand and desert conditions, which I discuss in my other books. Assiniboia, and in fact the majority of old Canada, is totally different.

First, there is almost no deserts. Crazy, I know! The main reason for this is a giant glacier far to the north, and the cold air that comes from it, which, when it touches the warmer, hotter air from the south, creates a band of odd weather in a strip of land about 200 miles from the glacier into old America. It forms something along the lines of permanent spring: rain and snow, warmth and cold all can happen within a week, sometimes within hours of each other. So if you go north, make sure to take clothes for any possible weather combination. However, it rarely gets above 70 degrees Fahrenheit, or about 20 Celsius, and only on rare cases would it get to -4 F, or -20 C.

This weather also means an interesting ecology. Hardy grasses cover most of the land. In the more northern reaches you'd find great forests of mutated trees that are quick growing and good construction materials, though not so good for burning. Crops have to be genetically modified to be able to withstand the extremes of the weather of Assiniboia. However the growing season is year round, and because of the modifications to plants and seeds, crops are much more productive. Except for a short period of time after they it becomes ripe, there is little risk that inclement weather could damage the food supply. Besides, most cities, like Winnipeg, have massive greenhouses that feed the city anyway.

However, there is a great danger in Assiniboian weather. To the south of Assiniboia is a huge expanse of irradiated hell called Radiation Alley, the site of an old-world missile base that was hit in the Great War. Storms from this area, called Rad-Storms, can move north, endangering many unwary travelers and persons. In the towns of Assiniboia, sirens and bells will be used to alert everyone of the danger, so keep an ear out, and make sure you know what to do!

Next Chapter: The Animals of Assiniboia!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Climbing onto the train at Mord-Wink was a relief for Patrick. It was really awkward to be stuck in a hotel that had been staffed by cannibals, and with the news of the findings having spread through the hotel overnight gave Patrick no end to headaches (and lack of sleep) through the night before the all-clear siren blared out that the rad-storm was over, which was only at sunrise. As a member of the RAMP, even just an Auxiliary, he basically had to sort everything out. Thankfully, Mr. Frederick did what he could to help out. Philip simply claimed all the credit, but didn't do much besides wave his gun around to make sure no one escaped the building.

Hanny and Don, along with their entire kitchen staff, was handed over to the RAMP office in Mord-Wink.

"Honestly, I should be surprised, but I'm not," the constable in charge of writing up all the accused. "That place always creeped me out for some reason."

"And I used to eat there a lot!" another constable, also helping with the paperwork sighed. He looked a bit green and queasy as he scribbled away.

Mr. and Mrs. Frederick boarded the same train as Patrick, but with their first class seats, and Patrick stuck in second class, meant they wouldn't get a chance to talk again. Patrick and Mr. Frederick parted amicably enough.

"Hopefully the next time I run into an RAMP auxiliary, I won't have to uncover such a distasteful mess," Mr. Frederick said.

"Believe me, that's the last thing I wanted to do when I came here." The thoughts of where Zach was right now, and what could have happened to him, came rushing into Patrick's mind. He tried to push them out, but they didn't go far.

The train finally left around 11AM, and Patrick, despite the hard, barely cushioned seat he was assigned, slept from Mord-Wink to Morris, with only a couple stops for more coal and water, as well as exchanging passengers in smaller towns. The train arrived in Morris, an old town with high, earth and stone walls surrounding it - more for the flooding that often inundated the town than any possibility of raiders, but it was a nice bonus - that evening, but Patrick decided to stick with the dining service offered in the UAR stationhouse. Just in case.

The train continued it's journey through the night, arriving at Atwood around 2AM, a couple hours later than expected due to a snowstorm that started halfway between the two towns, and was still continuing when they arrived. The crew of the train changed, and pulled out a couple hours later, with Patrick dozing off again.

Unlike the first train ride, Derek was more bored than anything now. The rarely changing sights out the window didn't appeal to him as much anymore.

"Uh, PatrickMorrison?" he quietly nudged a dozing Patrick, who snorted and jerked upright, looking around nervously, before calming down as he realized nothing was going wrong.

"What is it?" Patrick asked, sleepily with a yawn.

"Can I see that thing on your arms?"

Patrick looked at the Pip-boy, and with a shrug, flipped the lock on the bottom and handed it to Derek. "These things are nearly indestructable, so sure."

Patrick began to doze off again, but every so often there was a click, followed by a grunt of confusion and steadily increasing anger, before Derek gave up.

"Too many words I don't know," Derek said when Patrick looked at Derek questioningly.

Patrick counted himself lucky that Melita had a school where he could learn the basics: reading, writing, arithmetic, and the other things to make his life easier. Many people in the post-apocalyptic wasteland, and even in Assiniboia itself, were not so lucky.

Patrick sighed, and looked out the window. The sun was starting to rise from the west, and it was glinting off of something glass and metal ahead of them to the north. Patrick was curious what it was: there weren't many things in Assiniboia that could do that, with glass being broken and metal rusted. He craned his neck as far as he could, but couldn't quite see through his window to what was ahead So he manhandled the window, pulling it down, and stuck his head out to get a better look, a cool breeze and coal smoke blasting into Patrick's face. But he saw what the glinting was, and what he saw made Patrick gasp in amazement.

Vault H, Patrick saw as they got closer, was perhaps the best idea of what a pre-war city could look like: shiny steel and glass buildings towered over clean, tidy and paved streets. A couple buildings with smokestacks at the edge of town bellowed smoke, while wagons, brahmin caravans and train cars on a siding were being loaded and unloaded. A sign on the building proclaimed "VAULT H MANUFACTURING CORPORATION" with a picture of a Vault door with a H on the middle of it being the company's logo. Patrick had seen that logo many times before: any piece of new electronics were made in that building, mostly recycled from old materials found in Assiniboia and outside the borders.

"All out for Vault H! All out for Vault H! Please take all valuables if you will not be re-boarding at this stop!" The conductor barked as he walked up and down the carriage cars.

"Let's go," Patrick said as he rose from his seat, and Derek jumped up and followed behind. Patrick grabbed his backpack from the seat beside him and followed the arrows that lead to the nearest exit, and stepped outside. Derek, with only some scavenged clothes on his back and a hunting rifle packed away with the sleipnirs, followed behind. Their mounts would most likely be taken to the UAR stables here and kept until they were claimed. Since they were under the name of an RAMP Auxiliary, it could be anywhere from hours to days, so they would be feed and cared for the entire time.

People in clean clothes walking around, greeting each other as they went about their business. A few people still wore blue and yellow jumpsuits, all with a large yellow H on their back, but most people wore clothes that looked like they were stepping out of a mail-order catalogue from the Buckton store that, even after being gone for over a century, still found it's way into the Assiniboian wasteland: "Buckton dressed" was a term for someone in their nicest clothes, while "Buckton priced" meant it was affordable, yet made of high quality. There weren't any cars like in the old pictures, but bicycles and sleipnir drawn Fusiliers, all brand new, were in the streets, along with a streamlined tramway clanging away, transporting people from one side of the town that looked like it had been taken from an old magazine and brought to life.

Even the air smelt clean around here. No dust or tickle of radiation, no smoke or smog or manure. Just… air. It felt really foreign to Patrick, a lifelong farmer, that the air could be so clean.

Patrick also noticed a lot of uniformed security guards, and a lot of cameras. This place must be well covered with all the surveillance. Must be one of the safest places in Assiniboia.

"So what are we doing here, PatrickMorrison?" Derek asked.

Patrick looked around. "I need to find a piece of electronics that would help control a water purification system. I just have no idea where it would be."

Derek looked around as well, before pointing to a building just down the street, one with VAULT H WATER PURIFICATION STATION on it.

"I didn't know you could read," Patrick said, amazed.

"I can't. I just saw the water drop thing," he said, pointing to the blue drop that was at the front of the sign.

Patrick and Derek chuckled at each other, before walking down the street. The people seemed friendly, the atmosphere was cozy… it was strange, after living and going through small towns where they were closed minded and wary of foreigners (or having a habit of eating random passers by) that they were now welcomed, or at least not impeded in anyway. As a major trading and manufacturing town, they must be open to almost anybody that comes by. How else would they sell their products?

When Patrick made that comment to Derek, Derek pointed to the Pip-Boy still on Patrick wrist. "Maybe that's part of it?"

Patrick held up his hand and looked at the old-World tech, before looking up to see that almost everyone else around here had the same thing on his or her wrist.

"Huh… I almost forgot I had that thing," Patrick mumbled. "I will have to try to use it more often."

Patrick looked down and started fiddling with the settings as he walked toward the building. Apparently, according to this thing, he had 76 rads of radiation (most likely from Metigoshe and some food he had eaten, but nothing dangerous), and fifty-three unread messages. He scrolled through them, to realize most of them were those random messages that must have been picked up: news articles and info tidbits. He might go through that. Eventually.

Patrick looked up to see that he was a step away from walking into a pole. He jumped back, startled.

"Heh, must be new with that thing," a man said off to the side, wearing a Vault H jumpsuit and black leather jacket with a Security badge and a hundred pockets on it and a leather holster is a laser pistol hanging off of it. He had a full head of brown hair covered with a dignified policeman's hat with a brass "VH" badge on it, and a small mustache that made him look like a pre-War movie star. "Officer Roy Gordon, Vault H Security, at your service. What's your name?"

Patrick gave his name and introduced Derek. Roy just smiled and shook hands with both of them.

"Well, I can tell you really aren't from here, even with a Pip-Boy 3000 on your arm. Everyone that grew up here knows how to use that thing since they are ten, and they only part with it once they die. It's a handy gadget."

Patrick nodded. "I just got it from the Mayor of Melita, Reverend Jamison. He said he was from here at one point."

Gordon thought for a minute, then snapped his fingers. "Lloyd? Wow, I thought when he left here for Winnipeg that he would never amount to much of anything. But the mayor of a town? And a Christian Minister? Wow, I'm impressed." Roy chuckled. "He and I are the same age, and we got into a lot of trouble as kids."

Patrick nodded. "Anyway, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure! What can I help you with?"

"Well, I was sent here by Commander Mackenzie of the RAMP in Metigoshe, as they are having problems with the chip for their water purification system. They said that Vault H would have something that could help with that."

Roy's demeanor never flickered. "Well, I bet the engineers in here could get something whipped up. You know that Vault H is the tech center of Assiniboia, and I bet there isn't a problem they can't fix!"

Patrick grinned. "That's great. Can we go in?"

Roy shook his head. "Sorry, only those with a clearance can go in there. But I can. Be right back!"

Patrick and Derek watched as Roy walked away and up the steps to the Water Purification Station. When he got to the big metal door, he pulled out a security card and swiped it in a digital reader to the side. A light blinked green, and the door opened, allowing Roy Gordon to walk in.

Patrick and Derek continued to watch as the door slid shut, and waited for Roy to return.

Derek began to shuffle a bit, grinding his teeth and fiddling his fingers. "Uhh… Patrick, do you mind if I walk around a bit? Don't really like just standing here."

Patrick shrugged. Sure, Derek was pretty much wearing caveman clothes compared to everyone else around here, but they haven't seemed to mind. "Sure, might as well. Walk around, tell me what you find. I can wait here. Don't get into trouble."

"I'll do my best," Derek grinned, and jogged off. Patrick lifted up his wrist and started fiddling with his Pip-Boy again. The realized the map wasn't updated at all, with only Melita, Brandon, Winnipeg and Vault H on it. Patrick set to work trying to add the different places he had been so far, guessing by the roads and rivers on the map where everything was. The green screen, and the work it took to properly label things, was all engrossing to Patrick, so much so he barely noticed anything around him, including a loud commotion occurring off in the distance. He looked up, but it didn't look to be anywhere nearby, so he looked back down again.

The door suddenly beeped open, and Roy Gordon walked out with a bespectacled lady in a white lab coat, but also in a Vault H jumpsuit under the jacket. She was tired, her hair messy, but she did her best to stand upright and give a smile to Patrick.

"Patrick! I have some good news and some bad news. First off all, this here is Dr. Gladys Johnson, the head of the Water Purification Station. That's the good news!"

"What's the bad news then?"

Dr. Johnson stepped forward. "The blueprints for the water control device you want are not in our files. If we had them, I'm certain we can make you one."

"Don't you already have one? Can't you just use that as a model?" Patrick asked.

"Well… no. The company that built Vault H was a subsidiary of the bigger Vault-Tec in the old US, and they weren't able to stock the Vaults here in old Canada as well as the original ones. In the past 140 years, we've gone through our supply of spare water chips, of which we only ever had ten or so, and we didn't think to dissect one. They were too complicated and intricate, and if we broke the one that is now supplying water to Vault H, we would be screwed." She grunted, slightly agitated. "As much as I would like to experiment on it, the Overseer would never let me."

Patrick sighed. "Well… where do I go to get a blueprint then?"

Dr. Johnson rubbed her chin. "The Vault near Bismarck, Vault 53, might have a spare chip or the blueprints. But they happen to be on the other side of the front line with the Brotherhood of Steel, so that might be a challenge. Our databases also make mention of two other vaults in North Dakota, but we don't know where they are located. One of them is Vault 63. The other one, however, is weird: Vault 123."

"Why is that weird?" Patrick asked.

"Vault Tec only built 122 as part of Project Safehouse, which was the program to save a portion of the American people in the event of a nuclear war, which, well… happened. So… why is there a Vault 123?"

Patrick sighed. "So… either I have to cross a heavily guarded military front, or find a Vault that may not exist?" Why was there never a simple mission to go to one place and find someone? Like his brother?

Roy Gordon, still smiling, made a motion. "You know, there are stories of a Vault in North Dakota, but one where nobody comes back from. Don't know if it's true or not, but, it might be worth checking out."

Patrick scratched his head. "So, you think I should go down there? To a Vault that _no one_ returns from?"

Roy shrugged. "Frankly, that's up to you. But I…" the radio on the security officer's hip began to beep. He apologized, lifted it up and turned around as he spoke into it. After a moment, he turned around again. "Patrick, you wouldn't happen to know where your friend went, do you?"

"He went for a walk to look around, yeah. Why?"

Roy's smile faltered. "He had just been arrested for pickpocketing, and is in the jail. You might want to come with me and find out what just happened."

Derek had a bloody nose and some bruises on his knuckles from a fight, and glared out of his jail cell in the Security offices of Vault H, near the massive hunk of metal that was the door of the Vault, as Patrick and Officer Gordon approached.

"I didn't do a damn thing! I walked by a guy in a fancy suit and with that Boy thing, and he suddenly started accusing me of stealing from him!" Derek shouted, jumping up from his seat and grabbing hold of the iron bars. "And then a bunch of those security guys just came out of nowhere and attacked me! I only defended myself!"

Patrick raised his hands and waved them to try to get Derek to calm down, as Officer Gordon, his smile gone at last, had a hand on his laser pistol.

"Okay, relax. We will get you out of here as soon as we can," Patrick said, turning to the security officer. "Officer, there has to be a misunderstanding here. Derek is someone that would hurt a radroach unless it attacked him."

Roy Gordon shrugged. "I'm sorry, but when the Overseer himself is the victim of a robbery, or even an attempted robbery, we have to take it seriously."

"Attempted… The Overseer?" Patrick said eyes wide, he turned to Derek, who held his hands up to show that they are empty. Patrick groaned and hit his head on the bars in exasperation. "Can we do anything about this?"

"You will need to talk to the Overseer yourself. I'm just a lowly security officer, more likely to be out front in town to welcome new people and help them. But I can get you a meeting with him, as soon as possible." Roy walked out of the room to go talk to someone outside, leaving Patrick and Derek alone.

"Look, I don't know what is happening. Something fishy is going on, I bet. But I will get to the bottom of it," Patrick promised. "Just… don't go swinging at police officer's anymore, okay?"

Before Derek could reply, Roy was back. "Lucky for you, the Overseer can see you right now. I can take you to him now."

Patrick nodded, and followed Roy, but not before turning around and giving a small smile to Derek and a wink. The tribal took a deep breath, and just watched as Patrick was lead away.

Patrick followed Officer Roy along till he got to the slope that lead to the man made cave that housed the entrance to the Vault. Unlike most places where Vaults had been built, there were no mountains or valleys that could be dug into, no bedrock that could survive the blast of an atomic bomb. So most Vaults in the middle of North America had to be dug into the prairie to the required five meters of dirt below the surface before you even get to the vault itself. If you didn't know what to look for, it might not even be apparent in most cases there was a Vault nearby, as many of them were well hidden, or in some rare cases, could have been buried over by the sand and dirt blown around in the hundred some years since the bombs dropped.

Vault H though, because it had a town around it now, was pretty noticeable. The two men walked through the wide open circle that was where the big Vault door would have normally sat.

"We keep it open during the daylight hours," Roy said as Patrick asked where the door is. "The door is on the inside, waiting for the codes to close it again. Only a few people have those codes, just in case something happens."

Patrick was amazed at the Vault itself. Even below ground, it was as clean and tidy as the town above, with people walking around from place to place to get to where they needed to go, carrying books, papers and tools from one place to another. While Patrick got a few curious glances, no one stopped him, especially as he had a Vault guard leading him on. He looked around at the clean metal walls, with posters ranging from Vault-Tech advertisements, official Assiniboian government information, and announcements of what was performing in the Entertainment Room of the Vault that week were all tacked to the wall. Camera's hung from the ceiling, carefully observing everything going on, and a Mister Handy robot, with his posh, refined accent, humming along and greeting every human it met.

They finally got to an elevator and after two Vault suit clad inhabitants, talking to each other about their jobs, got out, Patrick and Roy walked in.

As the doors closed, Roy looked over. "So, what are you thinking?"

"Something is weird here, is all I can say," Patrick said. "Derek didn't have anything of the Overseer's on him, did he?"

"As far as I know, no. He was arrested for attempted robbery, so he must have been caught in the act." Officer Roy replied.

After a long moment, the door dinged and opened, and Roy guided Patrick out and down the hall.

Roy stood outside a door with "Overseer's Office" in the illuminated light above it. "The Overseer is inside. I can't go in with you, but I will be here to lead you back up."

Patrick nodded, and as Roy pushed a couple of buttons before sliding his pass card through a scanner, making the door slide open up into the roof. Patrick walked in.

Unlike the rest of the Vault, the Overseer's Office looked more like an old-world Country Club. Wood paneling, bookcases full of books and other knick-knacks, a massive globe in a corner near a bar with a wall of expensive liquor along a mirror wall and comfortable chairs with leather backing and padding, as well as a thick, plush burgundy carpet. It was like he just stepped back in time.

"Admiring my office, are you?" a voice asked, making Patrick turn around to see a large round metal desk, with computers all around it, and in the middle an older man with greying hair and in a nicely pressed Vault H jumpsuit. He was leaning back in his chair, hands crossed in front of him, an amused smile on his face. "When the Vault was first built, it was nothing like this. More functional and less fancy for someone that is just leading a group of people who just survived a cataclysmic disaster. But since Vault H opened only four years after the War of 2077 thanks to the Divine Miracle that graced Winnipeg, my predecessors and I had time to make this office more comfortable."

"It is very nice," Patrick said, walking over and sitting in a chair in front of the desk that the Overseer graciously offered. "But I'm here for other reasons."

The Overseer nodded, his face turning serious. "Of course. It's about the tribal that robbed me, isn't it?"

"But he didn't actually rob you, did he? I never heard that Security found anything you owned on him. Kind of hard to be robbed when you didn't actually lose anything," Patrick pointed out.

The Overseer threw up his hands. "Well, you got me. But unfortunately, the paperwork to get him out is a bit behind at the moment. It would take some time, maybe helping a certain person out before it will be done, Auxiliary."

Patrick jerked straight up in his seat. "Wha…"

The old man in the blue and yellow jumpsuit just chuckled. "Oh, don't give me that. I have eyes and ears that reach all across this fair country. Maybe the DBS won't tell the outside world your name, but I know who you are, Patrick Morrison."

Patrick sat there, stunned. After a moment, he took a deep breath. "Okay, fine. So you know my name, and what the radio is calling me. But what does it have to do with Derek?"

The Overseer leaned forward, his hands rest on the computers in front of him. "Very simple. I have something you want, and now you have to do something for me to get him back. Very simple trade."

Patrick's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think that I will do what you want me to do?"

The Overseer pressed a button on his computer and the door that Patrick walked through to get into the office made a series of mechanical clunking noises. "Because unless you do, you are not leaving this room. Oh, I got food and drink for you and you can amuse yourself with that Pip-Boy of yours for as long as you want. But until you agree to help me, you are my… guest, let's say."

"But you mean prisoner," Patrick scowled.

"Did I say that?" The Overseer just waved his hands. "But honestly, what I have for you to do is simple. Easy as riding a bicycle. All I need you to do is take a package of mine up to Winnipeg and give it to a friend of mine. Just don't open the package, and get it there in three days, and then come back here and your tribal buddy will be fine and dandy, ready to go out on whatever adventure you two have planned."

Patrick growled. "There's got to be a catch to this."

"Nope, nothing out of the ordinary." The Overseer gave the slimiest smile he could. "Just don't go through any metal detectors and don't tell anyone what it is."

Patrick grunted, glaring at the Overseer. "Fine, I'll do it."

The Overseer grinned. "Excellent." He reached under his desk and pulled a small cardboard box out, the lid taped down in four different spots different spots. "You will need to take this to the RAMP headquarters. Ask for Corporal Jenkins, and deliver this package to him. Then you just radio to me or come back here, and the paperwork for Derek should be all cleared up." The Overseer looked up. "Oh, and don't open it. Just let Corporal Jenkins do it."

Patrick carefully took the box, and shook it a little, but whatever was inside was of a moderate weight, and wrapped in something to keep it from moving. Must have been very delicate. He slipped it into his backpack and stood up. "Is there anything else?"

The Overseer pushed the button for the locked door to the office and then stood up. "Oh yes, one more thing. I understand that you were looking for a water-controller chip, right?" Patrick nodded. "Well, as soon as you find the blueprints, bring them here, and we will make it for you. No charge."

 _Yeah… just some "misplaced paperwork" for another scummy job,_ Patrick through to himself, looking at the box. When the Overseer offered his hand for a handshake, Patrick reluctantly shook it (the Overseer had a very firm grip) and quickly walked out of the office, past Officer Gordon and straight for the elevator. The Vault Security officer hurried after him, and caught up to Patrick just as he was calling the elevator.

"What happened? Did you manage to get your friend freed?"

Patrick looked up, and saw a security camera pointing straight at him next to the elevator, no doubt being controlled by the Overseer to watch him. "Not yet. But soon enough, I hope."

Patrick stormed his way back to the UAR station to order a ticket to Winnipeg, silently furious the entire time. As he walked through the clean streets, everything around him started to take on a more sinister tone: the smiling people, the smug sense of superiority that was never mentioned, but was clearly there. The Overseer had got on his nerves a bit more than he should have, being so affable and generous while taking advantage of him. All the times that Patrick thought that he was doing good, and yet, here he was.

Officer Roy Gordon, as nice and courteous as he was, couldn't be trusted now. Could Patrick really trust him? How much did the security here actually work with the Overseer? Considering that Derek was behind bars for just being pointed out by the guy to snag Patrick into working for him, Patrick's best guess for that was that he couldn't.

Officer Gordon still followed him like a little puppy, trying to talk to Patrick and offer his help.

"What the hell can you do?" Patrick finally barked back once he stepped up to the station. "Your precious Overseer has just arrested my companion and has me running an errand that will most likely get me into enough trouble to foul up any effort for finding my brother which is the only reason that I joined the RAMP in the first place!"

Gordon shut up right then as the furious Patrick continued glaring at him. "I… I didn't know."

Patrick scowled and grunted, and turned around and pushed open the front door. For all he knew, he most likely already talked too much, and the Overseer and his network of cameras and spies had already caught him.

As he walked over to the ticket counter and began to order the ticket, Officer Gordon sullenly walked away as Patrick left instructions for Demon to be placed on the train as well, and flashed his Auxiliary forms, and got the ticket handed to him without cost and a smile from the female employee behind the desk, and a thanks for keeping the country safe. Patrick only nodded. If only she knew what he was actually doing.

Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #9

 **Vault Tech North Press Release: The Canadian Preservation Program**

July 9, 2055, Department of Public Safety, Ottawa, Ontario

Today the Dominion of Canada, in accordance with Act C-7 (Canadian Civilian Safety Programs 2056), has signed a contract with Vault-Tec North to build special fallout shelters in Canada with the express purpose to save a proportion of the Canadian population in the event of a nuclear war or other catastrophic disaster, both human or natural. Similar to the American "Project Safehouse," the Canadian Preservation Program will build 17 "Vaults" based on the American design with changes to better suit the natural geography and constraints posed by Canada. One thousand people per Vault will be kept in safety and comfort for a duration of time that will be determined by various factors, including radiation, climate and hostile presence. There will be no set dates for the opening of these Vaults, as local conditions may vary drastically from place to place.

Due to the limited number of spaces available, the Department of Public Safety will screen all applicants for the Vaults based on health, abilities, knowledge and age. This will make sure that a wide variety of trained specialists in different fields ranging from agriculture to technology will be available for when the Vaults do open, and can help rebuild Canada.

Any questions regarding the construction of Vaults, the amenities that will be provided and how you can purchase blueprints on the tried and tested Vault-Tec vaults to build your own can be made at your local Vault-Tec North representative. For information on how to apply to a Vault, please contact your local police or Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment, Dominion government office or your Member of Parliament's office. Applicants will be contacted by a Vault-Tec North employee in a reasonable time to arrange an interview to determine if the applicants and their families are suitable for life underground.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The train ride to Winnipeg took its time leaving the station, leaving Patrick stewing at the anger he had with Vault H, the Overseer and having Derek locked up in a place that was as far from the tribal lifestyle he grew up in that Patrick could think of.

The locomotive that pulled Patrick to Winnipeg was one of the new Atomliners, a nuclear powered engine that was all the rage before the Great War, and was only now slowly being rebuilt 140 some years after the bombs dropped. There was no thick black smoke of coal, now huffing and wheezing. In fact, it was a lot smoother, faster, and comfortable than a steam train. It just felt off to Patrick, who had gotten used to the more meandering, temperamental and smoky steam locomotives.

Outside the window, however, was just the same scene as what Patrick had seen before: more dried, irradiated landscapes, trees in small clusters that hadn't grown leaves in decades, old whistle-stop towns that were nothing but piles of wood and brick in the wasteland now, the occasional working farm here and there struggling to eke a living, and many more that hadn't grown a crop in generations. Patrick contented himself with reading his Pip-Boy and listening to DBS programs. A mid May snowstorm began to fall that evening as well, making Patrick sigh. Now he really

Once Patrick got closer to Winnipeg, the towns stopped looking like there were all ruins, and soon looked like they were lived in, if not exactly well put together. The buildings became nicer, more sturdily constructed, and with more people milling around, not to mention electric lights illuminating the snowy streets. Melita only had a small hydro plant that was enough water to supply the water pumps and the train station with electricity. Everything else was battery powered, or candles. The train stopped at several of the towns, usually just long enough for some passengers to climb up and bags of mail to be tossed into the cars or unloaded.

A bridge of steel and wood that had been constructed since the War of 2077 over the Red River brought the train onto the direct route on the old rails north past the Perimeter, the old nickname of Highway 100 that ringed Winnipeg and now set out where the Capital District encompassed. Just inside the perimeter and the east was the sprawling campus of the University of Manitoba. Even as the world descended into nuclear-fueled chaos, the professors and scientists of the University of Manitoba rolled up their sleeves and set to work on making that same world livable. Assiniboia owed so much to the university, and it is perhaps the greatest legacy of the pre-war era to survive. Patrick was amazed at the tall buildings that dwarfed the campus,

In contrast to the University, on the other side of the train tracks was the ruins of South Winnipeg, where massive houses of suburbia from before the fuel crisis and the War of 2077 were now falling into ruins. As the price of gas went up, riots of dissatisfied youth and the pressures on the increasingly unemployed and shrinking middle-class made living in the outskirts of the big city less safe and fashionable to live in. After the American annexation and the collapse of the Canadian economy in 2075, most people either fled or were forced from the suburbs to the towering apartment buildings of the downtown. Even after the war, very few people liked living far from the center of the city that couldn't be easily reached by boat or sleipnir. Southwestern Winnipeg, according to many of the stories, was also where the thousands of refugees from Ontario and the US were kept after the bombs fell, and the ghosts of the tens, if not hundreds of thousands that filled the area haunt all those that seek to live there, and left the area more or less a haunted ground, shunned, feared and respected by the generations that have lived in Winnipeg since.

The further north the train went, the more diverse and habited Winnipeg became. Off to one side, along a large bend in the Assiniboine River, was the walled enclave that was Wellington Crescent. Just like in ancient times, the wealthiest Winnipeggers lived in massive mansions with servants and more rooms that could be counted, and many of them also possessed some of the few working cars in this part of the world, all to chauffer the bigwigs in luxury and splendor. The entire neighborhood, and the decadence, politics, gossip and extravagant wealth was the basis for the soap opera _Wellington Crescent_ that was the most popular shows on DBS.

Just a few blocks away was the notorious Osborne Village, one of the oldest areas of Winnipeg. While many politicians, bureaucrats, merchants and industrialists lived in the area, it was also home to the largest black market operation in Assiniboia, with many of the stores in the area also selling things that were illegal, or over the rationed limit. Anything from the best steaks to the most expensive chems could be found, if you knew the right place to go. The occasional RAMP raid would go in and sweep through the stores and markets and confiscate illicit materials, but it was guaranteed that it would all be back to normal just days later.

Those same politicians that lived in Osborne Village or Wellington Crescent worked in the massive limestone building that towered over this part of Winnipeg, the nearly 300 year old Legislative Building. A symbol of Manitoba before the War of 2077 and Assiniboia now, the "Ledge," as it was often called, still housed the prime minister, his cabinet, the other members of the Legislative Assembly and a dozen other government offices. On top of the building and it's massive green copper dome was the "Golden Boy," painstakingly restored after it tumbled off of the roof in 2108 due to the lack of maintenance. The statue, which once pointed north to symbolize the potential of thousands of square miles of resource rich land now buried under kilometres of glacier, now pointed south, as if saying "We will never turn our backs on the south." Whether that was a promise or a threat, no one was really sure. It could be both.

One more rail crossing, this time over an ancient train bridge over the Assiniboine River lead to the Forks, the center of the city and where the Red and Assiniboine River's met. At one point where Indians and the first settlers had traded and bartered, where the long-forgotten Lord Selkirk's pioneers had first settled, a massive railyard turned tourist attraction, and was now the largest marketplace in perhaps the entire world. Food, clothing, medicine and all manner of goods were purchased and sold here. Most riverboats had their main base at the Forks, and the train station was only a short walk away.

Patrick's train finally pulled to a halt inside the massive Union Station Terminal, where all the passenger trains start and end from when traveling across the country. The towering stone structure was showing it's age, as sheets of metal and wooden supports were holding up most of the building, while the aged and rusted steel and crumbling stone creaked and groaned, barely audible over the crowds that filled the hall. Patrick looked up nervously, realizing that if something went wrong, the casualties would be horrendous.

But Assiniboia had a love affair with its old, pre-war buildings. The Ministry of Culture and Communications would stamp anything built before 2077 with a "Heritage Building" Designation, preventing it from being torn down, but also that repairs couldn't take place that would compromise the architectural beauty. Of course, once that building finally did fall down, then it could be replaced with something new, if less impressive.

Patrick went to claim Demon, and after getting his sleipnir from the CPR Livery Stable (and the nervous, jittery young man who brought him over), he walked outside the station, the package in his backpack. Once outside, Patrick froze.

Standing on Main Street, Winnipeg, was a surreal, otherworldly experience. Tall buildings dwarfed everyone walking by. The tallest building in Melita was the grain elevator, and even then it was an anomaly. Most other houses or stores were just two, maybe three stories at most. Here, Patrick counted 10, 20, 30 rows of windows on the buildings. They were old and weathered, and many of the upper floors had long since been abandoned for safety reasons.

The smells were also different, though more stronger than anything else. With so many sleipnir's and brahmins around, Patrick would think it was like home. After all animals had to go somewhere, and they had no sense of decency to not do it in the middle of the road. But the smell of food, unwashed bodies, urine and a thousand other smells nearly made Patrick gag, cough and throw up all at once, but he managed to keep it in.

And the people! Never in all his life had he seen so many people in one place. Crowds bustled around, going from place to play, shopping and browsing, many walking in and out of the train station. Sleipnirs and brahmin pulled Fusiliers and more normal carts. A few riders maneuvered their way around the little clusters of people, shouting at people to get them to move, but many people ignoring them. Little kids played with each other as their concerned mother's looked on, while some men walked out of the myriad of small bars, stumbling down the streets. Men in shabby clothes and women in clothing that was almost too revealing either by design or flaw shivered in the cold winter air, hawking their wares or services. A couple of RAMP officers, in their red armor, watched over the crowd behind dark sunglasses, while a troop of green-grey clad soldiers, complete with helmets and rifles, marched down the street toward the train station.

To top it all off, the snow that had been falling overnight wasn't a simple white, but a mucky, dirty brown slush, a colour that seemed to blend in with the people, the buildings and everything else to form a flawed, intimidating, yet still amazing first impression of Assiniboia's capital city, the Miracle City of the Wasteland.

"First time in Winnipeg sonny?" a long drawled voice asked behind Patrick, making him turn around. An old man in working clothes, a thick, well worn winter jacket, and a small cart piled high of boxes stood there, leaning against the cart and smoking a cigarette. "I remember the first time I got here from down south. Amazing how many people you can pack into one space, eh?"

Patrick nodded, dazed and disoriented. "Uh, you wouldn't happen to know where the RAMP Headquarters is, do you?"

The old man took a draw from his smoke, and exhaled. "Sure do. Go up Main Street here until you get to Portage and Main, and all those big ol' skyscrapers. Turn down Portage, and keep going until you see this big wall made out of old cars. Behind it is 'The Sandcastle of Portage,' a University from the Before Times. That's the new RAMP HQ."

"Thanks a lot," Patrick said, and lifted his boot into the stirrup made to mount Demon.

"Don't mention it," the man said, lifting up his cart and pushing it on again.

The crowds beyond the station were thinner, but there was still more people than he was really comfortable with walking around. It seemed like every street he looked down, the entire population of Melita, or even Vault H, could be dumped here and no one would notice. Cities sure were different from a small town, that was for sure.

A cool breeze washed over Patrick as he went through Portage and Main, complete with snow flying in his face. and he had to grab the beaten leather hat on his head to make sure it didn't fly away. When he got to the intersection, he waited for the RAMP traffic cop to wave his arms and motion traffic in the proper direction, though some didn't pay attention and followed the rules, causing commotion and chaos until the perpetrator finally weaved his way through the crowd, to the loud shouts and curses of those they were holding up. When it was safe, Patrick turned west, and began trooping along to the west.

Old buildings with signs both old and new were either painted, hung, light up or plastered to the sides of the building, advertising the businesses inside. Banks, furniture, hotels, insurance and trade were all listed, though many of the oldest buildings, the ones that were "Heritagized" but were unsafe to use, still stood as empty, windowless hulks, skeletons among the living. Patrick shivered as he went by.

Further on, at Memorial Avenue, was the five story stone building of the Rediboine Trading Company, the unloved but necessary monopoly that traded goods all across the nation, often reselling the items they got for cheap outside of Winnipeg at exorbitant mark ups.

Further down Memorial was the massive stone monolith that was the Legislative Building. It was even more impressive here than from the train: far enough away that you wouldn't see the wear and tear on the limestone, but close enough to see most of the impressive detail that went into it. If he ever got the chance to get closer, he was sure he would be even more amazed and impressed.

Patrick had to turn himself away and continued down the street. He saw the car wall just around a bend in the road, and saw the triangular shaped building that was now the main base for the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police.

A sign pointed down a side street saying "RAMP OFFICERS ONLY." It was guarded by two men in armor different from ordinary officers, and must have been the famed T-51b Power Armor that had been restored by Assiniboia after the nation was created, and when the US Army reluctantly joined the nation. The men inside the massive suit of metal, as if they were knights in an old book, didn't wear any helmets, only the broad brown Stetson that was the RAMP's trademark.

"Halt!" one of the men shouted as Patrick turned that way. "Only Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police members can enter this way."

"I was just looking for someone to talk to about a package I was asked to deliver," Patrick said.

"Well go around the front and go to the Public Entrance then," the other man said. "Only Dragoons, Members and Axillaries may enter here."

"Well, I'm an Auxiliary," Patrick said, dismounting off of Demon and pulling out the badge and forms that Commander Mackenzie had signed from him. The second Power Armored man clanked forward, startling Demon, and looked over the metal badge in Patrick's hand, and then taking the folded forms and looked at it, before grunting.

"Patrick Morrison?" the man asked, and Patrick nodded.

"What, where have I heard that name before… Are you the guy that dealt with those raiders down at… uh… Was-cah-du?" the first power armored man said, mispronouncing the small towns name. "And the ones at Turtle Town as well? The one the radio is calling 'The Auxiliary?'"

Patrick grimaced at his reluctant nickname. "Yeah… but the radio never said my name. How did you get it?"

"The RAMP is a close-knit community. I know one of the officers out there, Joseph. Great guy," the first power armored man said. "But yeah, I bet you want to actually see what we are up to, don't you?"

"Well, actually I have some other business to take care of. Is there a Corporal Jenkins I can meet?"

The two officers looked at each other. "Sorry, never heard the name before. But there are a lot of RAMP members here, so if you come in and talk to Reception, they might be able to tell you."

"Alright, thanks," Patrick said, as the officer's stepped to the side and the first one hit a button opening the door.

"Don't mention it," the first RAMP officer said. "The Red Serge Forever!"

The second officer chanted back the unofficial motto of the Mounties, and Patrick only smiled. The RAMP members were, perhaps, the most loyal men in the Dominion, the ones that did what they could to fight for order and safety, and were very proud to do so.

Patrick walked down the side street. Off to one side, in what must have been an old bus terminal for city buses, a stable had been set up, with dozens of sleipnirs standing contently, being groomed and feed by their riders.

An older lady, who, from the way she carried herself without any RAMP memorabilia on her to signify rank, must have been in charge of the stables, walked over to Patrick and Demon

"My, what a fine specimen of a sleipnir you got there," she said, looking over Demon. "A bit tall, maybe not run as often as he should be. Still well cared for."

"Yeah, he's also got a bit of a temper," Patrick said, as the lady walked up and stroked him. Though the black stallion was nervous at first and tried to shy away from her hands, at the first he melted into her hands, pushing his head against her hand and nickering contently.

"Wow, first time I've ever seen him do that," Patrick said.

"Ah, well you need to know how to do it," the lady replied. "I'm Sarah O'Connor, and I'm the matron of the stables here. Don't do anything with the guns there, but I take care of their mounts, train them and keep them fed and watered."

Patrick gave his name, his rank, and the name of the mount.

"Not often I see a new face around here. Do you want me to take care of Demon while you do whatever it is that you do?"

"Sure," Patrick said, handing her the reins. "Very kind of you."

"It's my job," Sarah replied. "Now run along and do what you need to do."

Patrick nodded, and walked over to the side door that lead into the old university. He walked up a few steps in a stairwell until he got into the building proper.

Inside, men and women, ranging from heavily armored RAMP officers to secretaries and assistants, as well as new recruits, old veterans, and a dozen other people were milling around. The halls were as tidy as one could keep them, and the paint did look like it had been touched up in the past 50 years or so, making it an anomaly amongst the Wasteland and the Dominion. Patrick looked around, and noticed a sign saying "Information" pointing to a small place on the far wall.

Patrick walked over, to see that no one was inside the room. Curious, Patrick hit the little bell on the counter, and waited to see what would happen.

A stiff clank of metal footsteps echoed through the room, and soon a Protectron robot appeared in the window.

"How may I help you, Officer, Dragoon or Auxiliary?" the robot replied in it's stiff robotic voice.

"I… I'm looking for Corporal Jenkins?" Patrick replied, feeling a bit off by talking to a robot.

"Searching for results for 'Corporal Jenkins.' Proper Name detected. Searching Personal Database. Searching. Searching," The robot intoned. "Two results found: Corporal William Jenkins, Fargo Detachment; Corporal Leonard Williams, Special Crimes Unit, Winnipeg."

"Where is Corporal Leonard Williams?" Patrick asked, assuming that the second choice was the one he was sent to find.

"Searching for results for 'Carpel Reynard Gilliam,'" the robot said. "No results found."

"No, Corporal Leonard Williams," Patrick corrected, trying to enunciate as clearly as possible

"Correction received. Searching for results for 'Cape Royal Leotard Mailings." No results found."

Patrick growled and was about to shout it at the top of his lungs when a young officer stepped in behind, and opening the back and flipping a switch. The robot suddenly powered down, and would have fallen over had the officer not carefully guided it over to the right. "Sorry about that. Rusty's voice recognition software isn't up to snuff. Anyway, how can I help you?"

"Uh… yes… I'm looking for Corporal Leonard Williams' office? Special Crimes Unit?" Patrick said, hoping he would get the right answer.

"Ah yes, The Special Crimes Unit. His office would be in 2A36. Just up the stairs behind you, under a sign that says 'English Department.' They still haven't gotten around to painting over that sign."

"How long has it been?" Patrick asked.

"Oh… 130 years, if I'm guessing right," he said with a smile.

"Uh, okay then," Patrick said, turning around. "Thanks for your help."

"No worries!"

Patrick walked back the way he came, nearly running into a couple people pushing carts of papers all over the place. He got back to the stairwell, and walked up the flight of stairs until he got to the second floor. Then he turned to his left, and saw the mentioned "English Department" sign, and walked down the hall.

Old books filled the halls, along with old post boards with notices ranging from classroom schedules to locations of bars in the Pre-War era, and more recent notices of proper behavior and propaganda for a "Spirited Assiniboia." Patrick, along with other people he knew back home, thought the slogan was a stupid one, but you can't stop the government when they get an idea.

Eventually Patrick found 2A36, with Corporal Leonard Williams' name painted on the door, and he knocked

"Come in!" came the reply from inside, a bored voice of an office worker. Patrick opened the door and walked in to see a huge hulk of a man, in a uniform that seemed a size too small, sitting at a desk with a working computer terminal, along with papers stacked a foot high. An open window behind him fluttered some of the papers being held down by paperweights, one of them being the RAMP standard issue WAR79 .44 Magnum revolver.

Patrick just stared at the mountain of muscle that sat behind the desk, before the corporal cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, sorry. I just didn't expect…"

"To see a big guy sitting behind a little desk doing paperwork?" the corporal finished. "Well, I would be out in the field, if it wasn't for one little thing." Before Patrick could say anything, the hulk of a man grabbed his chair and rolled away from his desk, wheeling around to show that Corporal Leonard Williams was sans legs.

Patrick's eyes went even wider at the sight of the legless police man. The corporal sighed.

"A raid three years ago on some house in the North End. Not just a bear trap hidden under some rubble, but also a trip wire hooked up to sawed off shotguns. Barely knew what happened before I was on the floor, blood leaking everywhere." Leonard shook his head. "Wasn't fun, and now all I can do is… well, this.

"But you didn't come here about my legs, did you?" The officer said, rolling himself back behind his desk, and motioning to a chair across from him. "And what's your name?"

"Patrick Morrison. And, well, uh… I have a package from the Overseer of Vault H that he wanted me to deliver to you," Patrick said, and laid out the story of what happened, before carefully taking the package from his backpack and setting it in front of Corporal Williams.

"Hmm," the officer replied after a few moments or thinking and looking at the package. "Hmm. This is weird."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been pursuing a case for a while, about corruption at Vault H. But the Overseer is a smart guy; covering his tracks, greasing some palms, has rock solid alibis. But this seems sloppy. I'm not sure why he would send an Auxiliary to deliver a package. No, he wouldn't do that. He must have wanted something else."

The officer took the package, and then a combat knife that Patrick didn't even see buried under the papers, and carefully cut at the tape that held the package together. Setting down the knife, Corporal Williams started to open the box. But as he started to lift the lid, Patrick heard a little click.

"What was that?" Patrick asked, the clicking starting to speed up

The corporal's eyes went wide. "A bomb!"

Patrick lept across the desk, scattering the papers around and grabbing the box from the RAMP officer and tossing it out the open window behind him and it fell down to the street below. Not even a moment later, a blinding flash of light, ear shattering bang, and huge explosion threw shrapnel everywhere, and loud screams and terrified whinnies of the sleipnirs in the stables across the street.

Corporal Williams sat in stunned silence, and Patrick, still splayed over the desk, panted heavily. "I… I thank you for saving my life, Patrick. You have pretty good ears there."

Patrick lifted himself up and flopped back into the chair. The door behind Patrick burst open and an RAMP officer, weapon out, barged in.

"What the hell happened here?" shouted the officers in red combat armor and stripes of a Captain, pointing his gun at Patrick. "Who are you?"

"Calm down, Captain," Corporal Jenkins said, shaking his head as if he was shaking out some dust from his head. "He just saved my life. Also brought the bomb that nearly killed me, but he wouldn't have known."

The captain slowly lowered his revolver. "Sure, Corporal, but I think we need to talk to your friend here." The captain forcefully lifted the shocked Patrick from his chair. "Come on, we are going for a walk."

Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #76

 **Rebuilding The World: A Five-Point Plan from the Dominion of Assiniboia**

 **December 2088 Press Release**

Prime Minister Jack Landon has announced that the Dominion of Assiniboia was embarking on an ambitious, multi-year project to establish Assiniboia as a great power to bring civilization to the wastes, and rebuild as much of the world as possible. While this plan may seem idealistic and even farfetched to the cynics and pessimists, but with time, energy and devotion, Assiniboia can provide the shining beacon that our recently deceased leader, Prime Minister Duncan Cooper, spoke of. But, with the help of the best minds in our nations, ranging from economic, technological, financial, business and military leaders, Assiniboia has begun to develop a five-point plan to build up our Dominion.

1\. **Expansion:** The land and resources of the current dominion is insufficient for the needs of PorLaPra, much less Winnipeg and the smaller areas. Due to the irradiation of vast stretches of farmland, and the freezing of the north in a great glacier, and the danger presented by raiders and bandits, expansion for food, metals, and safety buffer zones are a vital importance to the Dominion. Assiniboia seeks to expand to at least the borders of the Pre-War Province of Manitoba, and to do so that respects the traditions of the inhabitants that we will encounter.

2\. **Agriculture:** As a pre-War agricultural powerhouse, Winnipeg, old Manitoba and new Assiniboia is in a great place to replant and grow the wasteland. All ready they massive greenhouse projects have done an amazing job to keep Winnipeg from starving, but full scale farms outside the city will be needed in the long run, The brilliant scientists at the University of Manitoba have already begun to explore how to genetically modify seeds and plants to stand up to both the harsh climate, and to grow in our great greenhouses, and to last longer than ever before, to allow them to be traded long distances.

3\. **Industry:** In order to rebuild, Assiniboia needs to explore how large and small scale industry can be used to provide work for the people, and produce consumer, military and trade goods that can be used for a multitude of uses. Assiniboia should have a hand in everything, but should focus especially on our strengths. As a transportation center, we should redevelop the railways, build boats for the rivers, and, if all goes according to plan and the resources can be found we can redevelop automobiles.

4\. **Security:** A strong nation cannot rely on food and industry alone. A strong military, adaptable for any situation on our borders is vital, as well as strengthening the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police that can protect people in their homes from both violence and more insidious and quiet forms of criminal activity at home. Providing security and safety will allow Assiniboia to grow and expand, as more people seek security under a proven, loyal, and incorruptible force for good.

5\. **Governance:** A strong nation needs a strong government. The post-War world provides an opportunity to experiment and explore different ways to govern large groups of people, as there are very few governments from before 2077 that are still around. Even as we begin to experiment, we will not compromise the rights and liberty of the people that they are born with or have earned.

Together, the work that we as Assiniboians do will make our new Dominion a shining beacon for the world. That is Prime Minister Landon's promise for the future of Assiniboia, old Canada, and the world.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The next three hours were not fun for Patrick. In fact, that would be an understatement. It wasn't torture, but it was stressful and very, very annoying and repetitive. Despite Corporal Williams trying to convince his superior otherwise, the Captain of the Special Crimes Unit dragged in the Internal Security Unit due to Patrick's position as an auxiliary, even though the Captain was convinced the document was forged.

However, after Patrick told the same story five times, the Internal Security guys were convinced that he was telling the truth. The story how the Overseer dragged Patrick into doing this delivery targeted at Corporal Jenkins, and then how he tossed the bomb out the window.

"But why would the Overseer be going after you?" Patrick asked when the Internal Security guys at last left.

"I've been investigating corruption, drug and weapon trafficking through Vault H for six months now," the corporal explained. "Dealers and smugglers we've arrested here in Winnipeg have been getting their hands on merchandise that is clearly not from Assiniboia, so we've been trying to trace where it comes from. All indications at the moment point to caravans coming from Vault H.

"I was thinking it was someone in the Vault, say a businessman or security officer that could get through the paperwork and roadblocks. But I never expected it to be the Overseer."

"So, does this mean that we can just go there and arrest him?" Patrick asked.

"Unfortunately, no," the Corporal sadly replied, shaking his head. "He's got a lot of friends throughout the government, with even the Minister of Justice a close ally of his, being an MP from Vault H himself. If he knew that we were investigating the Overseer the operation wouldn't only be shut down, but I would be out of a job. We've managed to keep it secret so far, but soon it's going to come out, especially when the news of a bomb going off in the center of the RAMP HQ breaks the news tomorrow."

"Okay," Patrick said. "So what do we have to do?"

Corporal Jenkins wheeled over closer to Patrick. "I need someone to infiltrate Vault H and the Overseer's office, and find anything that might implicate him. Only then can I present the information to bring him down." The RAMP officer looked at Patrick.

"Whoa, wait… me? I'm not suited for this! He already knows me!"

"Then you will have to be sneaky about it. Wait until evening, or disguise yourself as the staff, something," Corporal Jenkins said. "I'm sure you will figure something out."

"Well, I can't get there tonight. That will be as suspicious."

"It needs to be done soon. I can get the press guys to say that we don't know who it is, and that we are investigating. But that will only work for a couple of days. Any longer than that, and the truth might leak out. Three days, tops."

Patrick chewed on his lip again. The rate he was doing that, he might not have one soon enough. "Well, I guess I really don't have any choice, huh?"

"Sorry," the corporal said. "I would do it, if only I had two functioning legs."

Patrick sighed. "Fine. I'll do it. I'll get on the train and get there as soon as possible."

Corporal Jenkins smiled. "Also, I should mention: we just got word of some of the other things you have done. Because of that, the RAMP is making you a Sergeant of the Auxiliary. Congratulations on your promotion." He handed over a piece of paper that listed the things that he had done already, and with the official promotion.

"So what does that mean?" Patrick asked.

"To be perfectly honest, nothing. You are still an auxiliary. But you're now qualified for a few more pounds every month."

"Wait, I get paid?"

"Yeah, but not much," the Corporal said. "An Auxiliary is still expected to have a job outside of their roles, though you are, well… different in that regard."

Patrick forced a smile, just to make Corporal Jenkins feel better about giving him the news. He was different, alright. He was the one sticking his neck on the chopping block right now.

It seemed like everything lined up this time train wise. The Red River Express, the nighttime high speed run, also used one of the Atomliner locomotives, allowing it to race at over 120 kilometers an hour to it's destination going full tilt. Considering that Vault H was really only 30 some kilometers away from downtown Winnipeg, it would never have reached full speed on that short trip, but was still fast enough that it took a little less than an hour to arrive.

And for once, the train was on time, and added bonus. Patrick was back to Vault H just after sunset. The snow had mostly melted in the warm weather that afternoon, leaving puddles on the streets that, because they were paved, wouldn't turn to mud like they would have back home. The streets were illuminated by bright street lights and the softer, warmer glows from windows all over town, were a lot less crowded. Only a few people here and there wandering around. And thanks to the Vault H jumpsuit Patrick had on under his normal clothes (provided by the RAMP), along with the styled hair and shower he took, he looked just like a resident of Vault H. That, along with the codes to open the big door after hours, getting into the Vault would be easy. It was getting to the Overseer's office that would be the problem.

Patrick casually walked down the dirt ramp until he got to the big door. Now that it was in place, it looked even bigger and heavier than he imagined it. It looked almost like a mechanical gear, only with a two foot high H in the center. Beside the door a control panel was located, with a keypad to enter the code to get in. Another similar control panel would have been on the other side.

Before Patrick punched in his code, he casually slipped off his leather jacket and the black pants he had been wearing since he had left Melita, until he was only wearing the blue and yellow Vault suit. He shoved his clothes into his backpack. Patrick was about to punch in the code into the control panel, he could hear footsteps behind him.

"Excuse me, what are you doing here? Vault residents are supposed to be inside the Vault at this time of night."

Patrick spun around, only to see Officer Roy Gordon again.

"Roy?"

"Patrick!" he said in surprise, before walking forward. "What are you doing here?"

Patrick thought quickly. "When I finished delivering my package, I was supposed to come back to the Vault as soon as possible. The Overseer gave me the code to get in."

Roy's eyebrows went up. "Really now? That would be the first time he would have given anyone outside of the Vault the code to enter."

Patrick continued smiling, hoping his lie wouldn't catch him. "But what are you doing out right now?"

"Last patrol of the day for me. I'm about to go into the Vault myself. I can let you in if you need to go in. But the Overseer won't be in his office right now."

"I know, but he said I could sleep there until morning," Patrick continued lying, giving as big of a smile as he could. No use in lying if you were going to luck suspicious and nervous about it.

Officer Gordon hmm'ed to himself, before shrugging, much to Patrick's silent, unshown, relief. "Very well then. I'll let you in, and guide you down to the Overseer's office."

"That's greatly appreciated," Patrick said, a smile on his lips.

Roy Gordon walked over to the control Panel, and punched in the code. A siren began to blare, red lights flashing of the entrance and the big door. Air hissed out as pneumatic release valves let go of the door. It slowly slid back, sparks flying up as the heavy steel door grinded along the metal brace that held into place.

On the other side, an arm would be reaching out from the left, and latching into place. With a grunt, the machine would then roll to the door out of the way, the H doing somersaults as it spun around and around until it and the door were safely out of sight.

"Quite impressive, eh?" Roy said, flashing an award winning smile. "They sure knew how to make things back before the War of 2077. But Vault H does our best to replicate it." Patrick could only nod.

Patrick followed Roy through the dizzying maze of passages, stairs and elevators, past miles of clean, untarnished corridors and hundreds of pressurized doors that lead into rooms, all labeled with lights above proclaiming "Kitchen," "Washrooms," "Clinic" and a dozen other places until they finally reached the lowest level with the Overseer's office. Patrick and Roy walked toward the door.

"I hope he gave you the code to get into his office," Officer Gordon said. "Because only he knew it."

"I have it, yeah. I just can't use it when others are around, for safety reasons" Patrick lied again, his biggest one of the night.

But Roy didn't know that, and he just smiled and walked away.

"Good night Patrick. In the morning we can have coffee or something, yeah?" he said over his shoulder.

Patrick nodded, and waited for a moment until the elevator closed and carried Roy back to whatever floor he needed to be on.

Patrick took a deep breath and exhaled. He could feel himself shuddering as he thought about what happened, and how close it was, how close he was to being found out. Thank God it was Officer Gordon who found him, and not some other security guard!

Patrick turned around, to see a small computer imbedded on the wall. He really didn't know the code at all, which of course meant this was going to be anything but easy now.

He looked at the keyboard, and noticed five keys were particularly worn down, most likely from constant use: P. That might be a clue.

Patrick then brought up the screen that Corporal Jenkins had quickly showed him back in Winnipeg that would allow him to find the password, usually used to help the forgetful or computer techs to get into a computer. RobCo thought of everything, apparently. The green monochrome screen showed two columns, with at least a dozen words, random letters, brackets, symbols and other things were all on the screen. Patrick glanced over, and mentally cancelled out all the ones without the six letters from above.

However, that eventually only left Patrick two words: PATROL and PORTAL. He grunted at the frustration, but then he remembered the other trick Corporal Jenkins told him. If you find the two similar brackets to close together, it would cancel out words. So, Patrick started finding all the brackets he could find, and tapping away, hoping to remove one or the other of the words. One after another, words began to disappear, but after finding seven brackets, he still had PORTAL and PATROL. And in his rush, he accidently hit three words, meaning he now had one more try out of his four tries (two of the brackets he hit at the start were to give him more tries, which _really_ annoyed Patrick). And if he screwed this up, who knew if that would mean that the system would lock him out, would only have a cooldown, or, heaven forbid, sound an alarm.

"Damnit," Patrick muttered to himself, sweat starting to drip down his face, though the corridor was a comfortable 21 Celsius. Really nervous, Patrick looked over the screen again, carefully trying to find any brackets that he didn't get, but there wasn't one.

"Fuck!" Patrick swore, louder this time. He really needed to get it now!

Taking a deep breath, Patrick pulled a coin out of his pocket, an Assiniboian half pound coin with a bison and maple leaf on one side, and the head of Prime Minister Landon on the other. Heads, it was PATROL, tails it was PORTAL. What else could he do?

Patrick snapped his fingers, sending the coin skyward. Just as it was starting to come down, Patrick snapped it with his left hand, and slapped it onto the back of his right hand. He carefully lifted it up. The bison and maple leafs stared back at him.

His choice made, Patrick moved the keys over, until it highlighted PORTAL. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the enter button.

"ACCESS GRANTED" the green letters read out, much to Patrick's relief. The door beside the computer terminal slid open, allowing Patrick access to the Overseer's office. Patrick slipped inside, and pushed a button on the panel on the opposite side, letting the door close and lock again.

The lights came on, revealing the wood paneled office. Patrick stretched, and walked over to the filing cabinets on the wall. He pulled open the first one, labeled Finances. He looked through the folders, before finding the one for 2217, and he pulled that one out. As he looked over the numbers, one thing became apparent: there was a lot of entries written in red ink for expenses, and not even half as many black numbers for income. However, one income entry under "Great American Caravan Company" more than made up for the expenses, and gave a surplus for Vault H. But Patrick had never heard of that company before.

Patrick hmm'ed to himself, holding the sheet up to the built in camera on his Pip-Boy (another thing Corporal Jenkins' showed him), and snapped a picture of the sheet. He then replaced the paper and the folder back in its file, and opened up 2216's folder. Once again, a large amount of money from the Great American Caravan Company more than made up for any losses made. Patrick glanced through different files, but once he got to 2210, there were no income entries for Great American Caravan Company. Before that, a lot of loans from the Dominion of Assiniboia and the Dominion Union Bank seemed to be the only thing keeping the town and businesses of Vault H afloat, and the interest on those loans were only going up. Only that caravan company seemed to be keeping the whole thing afloat.

"Well, Mr. Morrison, I see that you didn't like my little present, eh?" a familiar voice asked, making Patrick turnaround. Still in a blue and yellow jumpsuit, but his hair disheveled and his eyes bleary, the Overseer stood in the doorway with a laser pistol pointing at Patrick. "I knew you were a clever guy, but apparently I underestimated you."

"Mr. Overseer. How did you know that I got in here?"

"That friendly security officer let me know, thought I should at least know you are here," the Overseer chuckled. "Sometimes you just can't trust anyone, eh?" He motioned the gun upwards.

Patrick stood up and lifted his hands into the air. "Corporal Jenkins was right, there is something going on here that you don't want to know about." He then glanced at the clock. It was 1:45 AM. Almost on time.

"Ah yes, Jenkins," the Overseer said as he sat at his horseshoe desk, laser gun still pointed at Patrick. "Took a lot of searching to figure out who it was. And when I couldn't pay him off, or threaten him to give up, I decided to be a bit more direct."

"But why do all this? You have the most advanced technologies in the country, and the machines to rebuild it. So why do you need to go into all these shady dealings?"

"Have you seen Assiniboia?" the Overseer asked. "A bunch of subsistence farmers, uneducated tribals, gang leaders, ignorant leaders and idiot yokels. Who would have thought that a post-apocalyptic society that is more concerned about survival and living to the next day would need many computers, or laser weapons? When we lost the contract to build the Radiograms a few years ago, that hit us hard. And while we sell a lot of radios to Assiniboians, it's just not enough."

"And you never got help?"

The Overseer shook his head. "Barely. About 15 years ago, the government managed to re-negotiate all the supply deals with my predecessor to reduce the price on them all, and then locked it in for fifty. I tried to solve the problem by asking to renegotiate the prices, but the Government wouldn't listen, instead offering 'loans' to me to keep running. But it's hard to keep going when you have to go begging for more money just to pay off the previous loans you already had." The Overseer scowled as he thought about the government.

"I'm surprised that had never been revealed before. That would have been a scandal," Patrick said.

"You are a smart fellow," the Overseer said. "Too bad you had to waste it with the RAMP. But the Winnipeg News Network once got close. But I offered them brand new broadcasting equipment, and they forgot the story," the Overseer said. "And DBS is too scared of losing government support to bit the hand that feeds them, and I did everything I could to keep the Prime Minister and his cabinet happy. But had the government decided to cut me off from loans and then reveal that we were basically insolvent, Vault H would be no more, torn down by Dominion to wring that money back."

"So, you turned to this Great American Caravan Company," Patrick said.

"Yes. A representative came to me soon after the end of the Assiniboia-Brotherhood War and offered us a great deal of money, enough to free ourselves from the banks and the Dominion government and their greedy fingers."

Patrick took a few steps toward the Overseer's desk. "But what would a small time trading company want with advanced tech? Enough to pay hundreds of thousands of Pounds to you? Where would they get that money?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. They don't ask me how I run my business, and I don't pry into theirs. All I know is they want computers and mechanical parts, and stopping points for their caravans and we provide them," the Overseer continued. "Business and commerce, something that the Dominion says it respects, but in reality is always trying to find a way to stifle, for any number of excuses."

"But what if the business is detrimental to Assiniboia?" Patrick asked back, sneaking a glance at the clock on the wall. The hands said that it was only a few minutes to 2 AM. Good.

"There is no such thing as detrimental business. I make and sell a product, and then I spend some of that money to buy other services of products, and the government gets some with taxes and fees and that. All business is good," the Overseer replied.

"But what if you were selling things to someone that is against Assiniboia? Like a raider group or Brandon or something?" Patrick asked back.

"Bah, you think the raiders or gangsters want a computer? They are more likely to smash it with a rock then write something on it," the Overseer said. "I'm a bit surprised you managed to get in here though. How did you do that?"

"I've picked up a few tricks since I left Melita," Patrick replied. "In fact, one thing I'm really proud of getting is my Auxiliary papers."

The Overseer snorted. "So? What about them?"

Patrick looked back at the clock, then back to the Overseer with a smile on his face. "Reasons."

Before the Overseer could say anything, Patrick dropped to the floor, and rolled as close to the desk as he could get. Surprised, the Overseer tried to aim his laser pistol at Patrick, but before he could fire, he heard a metal canister thud onto the carpet. He turned around just in time for the flash-bang grenade to explode, blinding and deafening the Overseer. He stumbled back, tripping over his chair and landing on the floor with a solid thud.

Five RAMP officers in camouflage combat gear and helmets, with weapons ranging from the stand .44 Magnum revolver to shotguns barged in. Patrick looked up, but he couldn't hear anything through his ringing ears, despite his best effort to plug them when he dropped.

Two of the officers went over and picked up the disoriented head of Vault H, while the other three held their guns out, surveying the room and the outer hall for any danger to their colleagues.

After a few minutes, Patrick could make out one of them were shouting at him, and he stood up, and walked over to the RAMP officer shouting at him.

"Good job, Auxiliary! We're sorry we weren't able to get him before he might have shot you," he said, his voice a bit louder and more drawn out to help Patrick hear him.

"No worries, it was just a laser pistol," Patrick replied, trying to downplay the danger. "Where is Corporal Jenkins?"

"He's back in Winnipeg. He had to stay behind to debrief the Commissioner when we are done." The officer gave a salute and was about to turn around when he stopped. "Oh, and here," he said, slipping a bulky radio from his hip and tossing it to Patrick, who caught it. "When you get yourself together, you should radio the corporal, tell him what you found out. Your call sign is Buffalo 1 for right now, and his is Viper 2."

Patrick nodded, but then tapped the RAMP man on the shoulder. "What about Derek? Where is he?"

"Your companion?" The officer asked, to which Patrick nodded in reply. "We are going through the holding cells right now. When we find him, we'll send him to you."

Patrick watched as the two officers who arrested the Overseer quietly led the dazed man out of his office. Patrick took a deep breath as the room cleared out, and he sauntered over and sat in the chair behind the Overseer's desk, before turning on and tuning the radio.

"Buffalo 1 to Viper 2," Patrick said into the receiver.

"Viper 2 here," the radio replied back after a moment. "How did it go Patrick?"

"Pretty good, the Overseer is in custody. I did find a couple things in his files beforehand though, all of it tying to something called the Great American Caravan Company. Lots of money being funneled to the Vault, which the Overseer said was for computers and electronics, as well as rights to stop at the Vault. But it seemed pretty excessive."

There was a pause. "What company did you say again?"

"Great American Caravan Company," Patrick replied.

There was another pause. "I'm just being told by the Commissioner that crates with that company name had been found with gangs, drug dealers and bandits that the RAMP has raided over the past couple of years. But all the investigations we have done have come up with no leads. They just seem to be a small time trading company that may unknowingly, or through other channels, be supplying gangsters."

"You don't believe that though, do you?" Patrick said.

"Of course not. But everything we've looked into seems to have been in order, so we have had no reason to look deeper. But now…" Corporal Jenkins trailed off.

Patrick sighed. "Let me guess, you want me to go in and investigate, don't you?"

The RAMP man didn't say anything for a while. "Look, Patrick, I hate to say this, but you are, perhaps, the best person we got to do this. Not many know about what you have been doing, and fewer know your actual identity. You are the perfect agent for these missions that we have."

Patrick sighed. At the moment, it seemed true. He really didn't like the idea, but if this would help him find his brother…

Derek poked his head into the room right then, smiling as he saw Patrick. "I'd knew you'd do it, PatrickMorrison. And thanks for helping me."

Patrick smiled back, and pushed the button on his radio.

"Alright, I'll do it."

Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #3197

NewsNet Update; February 17, 2210

 **RAMP Investigation into Winnipeg Criminal Gangs Leads to Arrest, Charges (WNN Pip-Boy Service) September 7, 2115**

The RAMP today announced that an 15 month long investigation into criminal gangs inside the city of Winnipeg has yielded impressive amounts of ill-gotten money, illegal firearms, drugs and manufactured goods.

The press conference held at the RAMP HQ today showed off many of the weapons, piles of stacked Assiniboian Pounds and Caps used outside of Assiniboia, as well as many products ranging from toasters to clothes to full dining sets. Most were manufactured outside of Assiniboia and smuggled across the border.

"Everything here had been uncovered in a series of busts over the past two weeks," RAMP spokesperson Corporal Zander McKinnon said. "In all, we arrested thirty-two people, laid 554 charges, and uncovered cash and goods worth up to three and a half million pounds.

Most of the charges were for willingly engaging in black market activity, smuggling, resisting arrest, tax evasion and one case of an unregistered canine.

"We would like to remind everyone that being involved in smuggling, black markets and other such ventures is illegal, and the RAMP will investigate and bring charges," Corporal McKinnon stated.

There were rumors that members of the Assiniboian government, including cabinet ministers, were also implicated, but the RAMP refused to comment.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

When Patrick emerged from the whole in the ground, the entire town of Vault H was, for lack of a better word, in ordered chaos. The sound of fighting, running feet and even charging Sleipnir's had woken up several people, who in turn woke up others. Several people were out on the street, wrapped in warm clothes as the cold night air to find answers. Without much information, rumors were quickly spreading, ranging from the Overseer dying of a heart attack to him being captured by bandits. Whatever the story, Vault H was, more or less, leaderless. The men and women he had put in charge of security, engineering, health, and all the other departments to manage a small town were competent, but had never been given any real responsibility in helping manage the town, and there was already a power struggle breaking out in trying to solve the question of who was now in charge.

Patrick and Derek were glad they were leaving as they were. Patrick had changed back into a comfortable shirt and denim pants and a nice thick parka, as well as his trusty Brahmin leather hat, and was glad that he was out of the tight spandex suit. Derek, who took a parka offered by the Vault security forces when he was released, was just glad to be out of jail. He didn't go hungry or anything, but the concrete walls and steel bars were not a fun place to be in for long periods of time, especially for someone that spent most of their life living with others on the land..

Patrick was also glad to hear that Demon was put on the train with the RAMP men that came down to here, so at least his trusty, if temperamental steed, was still available. Derek's sleipnir Aradesh was also here (or rather hadn't left since Derek was locked up), and seemed eager to continue traveling.

"So where are we off to now, Patrick?" Derek asked as they waited in the train station, carefully looking over the RAMP issue .44 Magnum revolver he had been given by one of the RAMP officers after they found out he only had a hunting rifle. Need something else for when you are in close combat, they said, so Derek took it reluctantly.

"South, into Red River America," he replied.

Derek froze. "We are going into the Evil Land?" he whispered. "Where the metal men that drove out my people, and the evil people that enslaved my tribe are from?"

Patrick patted his companion's hand that was clutching the chair handle with such force his hand was now white. "Don't worry, it's not where those Dakota people were from. It's Assiniboian territory, has been for years. We are just going down to the Great American Caravan Company, investigate, and come back. I promise."

"I don't like it," Derek said, nervousness oozing through his voice.

"You'll be fine, I promise. I'm here, and most likely we go down, talk to them, get some information, and sort out what happened here at Vault H. Nothing too bad." Patrick turned away from Derek, a frown crossing over his face. Of course, when he first came to Vault H, he thought it was just for that water chip part. Doctor Gladys Johnson promised to look out for the blueprints, but it was more likely Patrick would have to find it himself, in some Vault that may or may not exist down in the old US.

But since then he had to go to Winnipeg, nearly got blown up, and back again to bring down the slimy scumbag of an Overseer that was in charge of Vault H. There was never anything easy apparently.

Patrick wished that thought hadn't crossed his mind.

The train was more or less on time for once, and Patrick and Derek were out of Vault H before noon. The locomotive was a steam powered Royal Hudson engines, painted in gaudy red, white and blue, with some stars, maple leafs and bison painted on the side. Patrick asked the conductor why that was, and the young man, almost too excitedly, explained that this was the first train for the UAR that had been built with material from the old US, so it was made a primarily American run and operated locomotive in the otherwise Assiniboian system.

"This here is the one and only 'Double A Express," one of the fastest trains to ever run in the Dominion," the conductor enthused. "The entire crew does their best to show that we Old-World Americans can take a place in Assiniboia."

Eventually, after some more unbidden, random facts and statements that Patrick wasn't terribly interested in, the conductor carried on down the car to an old lady who, for the third time in an hour, asked what time the train was going to arrive in Atwood.

When the train arrived in Atwood half past one in the afternoon (and on time, which would undoubtedly give another reason for the conductor to brag about how great the Americans running the train were), Patrick and Derek stepped off their car to stretch their legs on non-wobbly ground, and maybe get lunch. As much as the conductor liked to gloat about the Double A Express, there was no dining car on this trip, much to both Patrick's and Derek's annoyance.

"I haven't eaten since I got out of the jail," Derek complained as he felt his stomach rumble.

"Don't worry, we should be able to find a place to get some food here," Patrick answered.

As they stepped out of the station, a building that was put together from scrap metal, wood and stone salvaged from the ruins of other buildings, they were greeted to the sight of an Old-World franchise restaurant, Atomic Joes. The faded and rusty red and white sign that was suspended up in the air had the J in Joe made out of a hockey stick (as Atomic Joe was the nickname of some Pre-War hockey player, whos actual name had long since been lost) advertised that it's food was "Rad-baked" and "Forever Perfect."

"What does that even mean?" Derek asked after Patrick read the sign.

"I dunno, some old world marketing ploy, most likely. Like the Canuck Co. stuff you still see," Patrick replied.

"What's Canuck Co.?" Derek asked.

"That's a story for another day," Patrick said, before he paused opening the door. "Where have I heard that before?"

It was packed as Patrick and Derek walked in. Most of the stools and tables were occupied: some farmers in one corner with black coffee, a couple businessmen in another with sandwiches and donuts, a young woman with a still functional portable typewriter, pounding away as she was writing something or another, taking a sip of her drink, which looked more like something he had seen come out of the wrong end of a Brahmin than a tasty beverage.

Patrick and Derek finally found a couple spots and climbed up into the front bar that went around the area where the waitresses worked.

"Heyo, welcome to Atomic Joes, can I take your order?" a bored middle-aged female voice asked Patrick after the two got settled. The woman was thin, her hair was done up so high Patrick was afraid it might get caught in the fan that whirred above them, and her apron was as clean as it could be, though coffee stains and a smudge of ketchup and mustard remained forever imprinted on the white cloth.

"Can I get a Brahmin Steak Sandwich and a Nuka Cola?" Patrick ordered, before turning to Derek, who shrugged, not knowing what. "Make that two."

"Any baked goods made with the Patented Rad Bake Oven?" she asked, resignation and disgust at having to call it exactly that for years on end seeping through.

"Sure, two donuts. Surprise us," Patrick said.

She turned around to place the order, leaving Patrick and Derek alone. Patrick looked around some more, and noticed a radio only a couple spots down from him. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, which still ticked, and showed that it was a minute after two.

Doing his best, Patrick strained his ears to hear the news

"…RAMP spokesmen would not disclose the name of the Auxiliary who helped uncover evidence of corruption at Vault H, and declined to comment if this operation had anything to do with the explosion at RAMP HQ in Winnipeg a couple days ago," the authoritative voice of Brad Horshaw said, relaying the news to the world.

"Well, nice to hear that the RAMP is doing something for once," the man who sat in front of the radio said to the man that sat on his left, who was also sitting beside Patrick on the right.

The second man kicked the first man. "You don't want to say that outloud, you dolt," he said in hushed tones. "What if he or one of his goons was here?"

"Who's he?" Patrick asked, leaning toward them. The two men looked at him in shock at having been discovered, before turning away and doing their best to ignore Patrick.

Patrick sat up, confused at what just happened. He turned around to Derek, to see that he already got his sandwich and was biting into it with gusto. Patrick shrugged, and looked down to see his sandwich was also in front of him. He slid his plate over to be closer to him. As he did, a piece of paper under the plate caught Patrick's eye. He picked it up, and looked at it.

In barely legible handwriting was "Get out of town ASAP." Patrick was now more confused than ever, and looked up to see the waitress, no longer bored or weary, but actually terrified, staring at Patrick and Derek in horror.

Patrick folded up the piece of paper and stuck it in his pocket, and grabbed the Nuka-Cola bottle in front of him and took a swig. He wasn't planning on staying long, just enough to get food and out.

The door opened again, and this time the entire diner fell in silence, with only a couple people from out of town still talking, and even they stopped when everyone else did.

Patrick let his eyes travel to the door, and he saw three men, two in the red painted combat armor of the RAMP, with assault rifles on their back and permanent scowls on their faces, and the other, tall and handsome and in a red outfit similar to what the old RAMP would have wore, with the gold chevrons of a sergeant on his shoulder.

"Is there a Patrick Morrison here?" the man in the middle asked, putting his hands behind his back as he walked into the diner.

Patrick winced as his name was called, as if he had just been shot in the gut. What now? He really didn't want to speak up, as he really just wanted to eat and get the hell out of here.

But the RAMP sergeant, looking around the diner and finally noticing the two men that he had never seen before at the counter, briskly walked over, and tapped Patrick on the shoulder. "Are you Mr. Morrison?"

Patrick took a deep breath. "Yes," he replied quietly.

The sergeant cleared his throat. "I said, are you Mr. Patrick Morrison?"

"Yes," Patrick replied louder this time.

The sergeant spun Patrick around until he was face to face with him. "When you talk to me, you address me as a superior, got it, Auxiliary?" he demanded, venom dripping in his voice.

"And I would recommend you don't lay a hand on me unless you have a death wish," Patrick snarled back. He was actually surprised at the outburst. "I just want to eat my fucking sandwich."

The combat armoured men had already unholstered their assault rifles and was pointing them at Patrick, while the Sergeant and the Auxiliary glared at each other for a long while, the atmosphere so tense that it would have taken a battery operated Ripper to cut through the tension, before the RAMP officer laughed. "Good, backbone! It's nice to see someone with that around here for once!"

Patrick was now even more confused, but the sergeant pulled himself together and extended a hand. "Sergeant Kirk Black, Atwood RAMP Detachment." Patrick took the hand, and shook hands with the man. "Hurry up and finish eating, we need to talk."

The Sergeant and the two deputies that followed him around left the diner. The room was quiet, staring at Patrick in amazement that he not only talked back to the RAMP officer, but survived.

Patrick turned back to his sandwich, but he quickly found out he had lost his appetite, the uncertainty of what was going on overriding any hunger he was feeling. With a grunt, he pushed the plate away from himself and climbed off the stool, and walked out of the still quiet restaurant. Derek, having polished off his sandwich and scarfed down his donut as if he had never eaten before, followed Patrick, taking sips from his Nuka-Cola in a surprisingly calm manner, and swiped Patrick's partly eaten sandwich to eat as well.

Sergeant Kirk Black was standing outside, talking to the two gruff men who seemed to be always attached to him. They nodded and saluted after the Sergeant gave them their orders. He then spun around on his heel and looked at Patrick and Derek who approached him.

"Ah, so you are the Auxiliary the radio has been talking about, huh?" he said, crossing his arms in front of him, that smile still plastered on his face like some old-World advertisement. "My friends in Winnipeg have nothing but praise for what you have done so far. It's that can-do attitude that I need right now, as I have a small problem I haven't been able to deal with myself as well as I could have, with my limited men here."

"What is it?" Patrick asked, already knowing his trip down to the Great American Caravan Company was being sidetracked. Why did it seem like every town he ended up in brought up another problem for him to deal with?

"You see, we have a band of fugitives running from the law riding in the river valley to the east. Three or so people, all guilty of a myriad of crimes, including robbery, murder and, most problematically, Undermining the Dominion."

"Basically you mean treason, right?" Patrick asked.

"More or less, yes." Sergeant Black took out a nail file from one of his pockets and started to scratch at his fingernails, rubbing out any imperfections he noticed. "They broke out of the jail a week ago, but I've been unable to get any reinforcements, as almost every available officer has been sent down to Fargo and Fort Carville. The Brotherhood of Steel is seen as a bigger threat than some rabble-rousers advocating the overthrow of our great nation!"

Patrick grunted, and forced himself to nod. It seemed odd that Winnipeg didn't seem concerned about treason on a major transportation route between old Manitoba and the eastern part of old North Dakota. Unless there was something else going on here, which was slowly making Patrick more uncomfortable as he thought about it.

"Well, I guess I could take a look into it," Patrick said. "It's going to screw up my schedule to get down south though, for my assignment."

"Don't worry about that!" Sergeant Black exclaimed, beaming. "I can arrange boat transport down there when you finish your job."

Patrick gave another half smile, but the same feeling he got talking to the now deposed Overseer was the same as he was getting talking to this RAMP officer, the feeling of getting into something that was going to quickly turn out to have been a lie all along, and would result in Patrick having to face the barrel of a gun.

And he didn't like that one bit.

The Red River was one of the few rivers that flowed north in all of North America, draining into what would have been Hudson's Bay, if a huge glacier now having frozen it solid. There are stories that the bay, along with all the old lakes of Old World Manitoba, were still flowing, as if the entire glacier was simply a maze of paths and waterways to link up all the lakes and rivers. Someone had called it Swiss cheese at one point, but Patrick had no idea what that guy was talking about. While he had cheese before (Brahmin milk was good enough for that), it seemed silly that there was a kind of cheese with holes in it. Plus, who was the Swiss they named it after?

The riverbank along the swiftly flowing river had its own hazards. The water only a few feet away was ice cold even in May, and the mud was thick and did it's best to pull Patrick down into the muck. He grumbled, before cursing as he stumbled on another root of an old tree that was still trying to cling to the side of the riverbank, to avoid being like its brethren that had already fallen and been washed away by the river. It was a good thing they tied up their sleipnirs to an old fence post before they climbed down here, where Sergeant Black said the criminals could be found.

"You could almost use this mud to make houses with," Derek remarked, deftly avoiding all the pitfalls that Patrick found himself in. "Let it dry in the sun, could make an entire town with this."

Patrick was too busy trying to avoid being swallowed whole by that mud to say anything. His backpack, weighed down with ammo, his guns and some packages of food and extra clothes, didn't make it much easier.

Eventually he managed to reach a spot where the recent snowstorm had yet to melt, leaving the mud virtually solid, strong enough for him to walk on. He looked down at his boots, the brown Brahmin leather even more brown thanks to the mud, and his denim pants, formally a decent black, was a caked on muddy brown from his knees down. Patrick sighed, knowing his feet would be the same color. He would need to find a shower after he was done this, he knew.

"So, Patrick," Derek said, surveying a large branch in his path, "What do you think about what we are doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Looking for these people that the RAMP man told us to find?"

Patrick thought about it for a moment. "I… I don't know, to be honest. If they were as big of a threat as Sergeant Black made them, then Winnipeg could have easily sent some people to Atwood to take care of it."

"What if the Sergeant is lying?"

Patrick wanted to say that couldn't be the case, but he wasn't so sure. Something just seemed… slimy about the RAMP guy in charge of Atwood. But the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police prided itself on being paragons of virtue and reliable upholders of the law. They would never have let the Sergeant progress that far, no?

"I don't know about this," Derek continued. "Why don't we just get on a boat and go south?"

"Because I'm an auxiliary of the RAMP," Patrick said. "I can't just choose what laws to uphold and which ones to ignore." Patrick turned around and continued walking down the river bank. "And, well, the Sergeant may not be my superior, but he is a full fledged officer, so I kinda have to…"

Patrick slipped on the mud at that moment, and lost his balance. As he fell forward, he could feel a piece of twine snap, and as he landed face first into the mud, a shotgun fired right where Patrick's chest would have been.

Derek wiped around, racing over to Patrick. "PatrickMorrison! PatrickMorrison! Are you okay?"

Patrick tried to lift his face up out of the mud, and eventually he was able to sit up, and used the cleanest part of his jacket to wipe the mud out of his face. A wet cloth, icy cold from the river, was pushed into his face.

"Oh, thank you Derek," Patrick said, rubbing his face.

"Who is Derek?" a man with a gruff voice asked. "That tribal over there?"

Patrick paused scrubbing his face, before peaking up over the cloth down the barrel of a shotgun.

"I think we have some talking to do," the man said, motioning Patrick to stand up. He turned around to see a large woman with a rifle pointed at Derek, who was just as surprised as Patrick was.

Yep. Something's gone wrong here. And I'm stuck in the middle of it, Patrick thought as he was led away.

Patrick and Derek were herded along a path along the river that he hadn't even noticed before they ended up at a small camp precariously perched next to the river. It wasn't anything fancy: just some scrap metal, old tarpaulins and logs cut down from along the river to form a base. It wasn't very stable, and if a sudden rain or flood came (which wasn't that uncommon in Assiniboia, anywhere along any river), this little camp would vanish, without a single trace to reveal it had been here.

There were three people here: the big man and women that hunted Patrick and Derek down, and a third woman, a pretty, young lady, carefully reading through a Bible, murmuring prayers and lines as if she was giving a sermon.

"Alright, you snoops, what are you doing here?" the man asked after Patrick and Derek had been forced to sit down on the log floor, his voice sounding more like a gravel pit than a human being.

"We were sent here by the Atwood RAMP," Patrick said, knowing lying wasn't going to get him anywhere.

The man growled. "That bastard Sergeant… I swear I should kill that fucker!"

"Hey now," the younger woman said looking up from the Bible. She would have been the right age to be the daughter of the man and woman. "Calm down Mike."

The older man grumbled, but didn't say anything else.

The young woman stood up, carefully closing her Bible. "My name is Julie Herrow, and I used to be the Christian Minister in Atwood, as well as a trained nurse that cared for the sick and injured in town."

"Then what are you doing out here?" Patrick asked.

"Because I spoke against Kirk Black for his abuse of power in a sermon," Julie said with a sigh. "Well, I didn't do it directly, but he's smart enough to know my message about how disobeying God's law leads to bad things was aimed at him."

"Isn't the Church supposed to be non-political?" Patrick asked.

"The object of the Church of Assiniboia is to not step into political issues, to use God's word to influence people in Man's government. However, that does not mean we should be doing our best to educate and enlighten those that follow us. Corruption, greed and dishonesty is illegal in both Heaven and Assiniboia, and it's my duty to call out and right such wrongs." Julie shivered, as if someone had just walked over her grave. "I worked hard on that sermon, spending over three months anguishing over the passages to use, the proper wording, and making sure it was always hidden until it was time to give it. Unfortunately, men like Sergeant Black can't be shamed into correcting his behavior, and he has the entire town in fear."

"Can't you talk to Winnipeg, to the Church there about what's going on? Even to the RAMP?" Patrick asked, shocked at what he was hearing. Could it be true?

"I've tried," Julie said, sadness on her voice. "But the Church dislikes getting involved with these issues, as the Church is, more or less, sponsored by the government. I will admit that the Dominion has done it's best to support hospitals, schools and ministries in the distant towns of Assiniboia, but that the cost of our near muzzling on any issue not religion related."

"And I'm guessing the RAMP can't do anything, can they? You don't have proof?"

At this Mike roared out loud in laughter. "I used to be in the RAMP, damn near 20 years, and used to be the man in charge of Atwood. Then Sergeant Black managed to worm his way in and take my post, saying I was the one who was corrupt, the one who allowed the BoS to set up bases north of the old American border in the First Brotherhood-Assiniboia War. So he managed to get me dishonorably discharged, kicked out of town and now put me on the run. The RAMP think's Sergeant Black is their golden boy, like he's the statue on the top of the Legislative Building."

"But why did he want a post in Atwood?" Patrick asked.

"Because it's the safest place in the nation. Winnipeg has too many gangs and criminals, not to mention the politics, so if he got on the wrong side of someone, he'd be dead. Atwood is also far away from the borders of Assiniboia: no raiders will barge in, no crime rings, no Brotherhood bastards to deal with. As long as he does his job and fills out all the paperwork, no one in Winnipeg gives a damn. Hell, out here in the middle of nowhere, he could run a big black market smuggling operation." Mike reached into his pocket, and pulled out some papers and handed them to Patrick. "And in fact, he did."

Patrick looked at the papers, and could see handwritten receipts for "miscellaneous goods," and some rather large sums of Assiniboian pounds, much more than Patrick had ever seen in his life.

Patrick tried to hand them back, but Mike waved him off. "Keep them. You might be able to do something with them."

Patrick nodded, and tucked the papers into his pocket, his fingers trembling, and it wasn't just because of the cold wind coming off the river. He then turned to the middle-aged woman, still pointing a shotgun at Derek, though not as rigorously as before. "What about you?"

"Mabel… she's had it the worst of all," Julie said, her voice wavering. "Her daughter was raped a few months ago by the Sergeant's deputies. I tried to help her, to tell her it wasn't her fault, and that God would still love her. She later killed herself a few weeks ago. When Mabel tried to get justice, Sergeant Black instead charged her with perjury and defamation, as well as for killing her daughter. I kept her safe for a while in the Church, as all churches are a safe haven for those that feel persecuted and violated. But the Sergeant's deputies didn't care, tore the place apart looking for her. I managed to get Mabel out of town before that."

Patrick listened to his in horror, his image of the RAMP in near ruins that someone like Sergeant Black could have gotten so far up the ranks. "How… how could this happen?" Part of Patrick wanted to throw his Auxiliary badge into the river right now, and forget he had ever done that.

Mike shook his head. "Power corrupts. That's the long and short of it. A few can handle the power and turn into selfless heroes. For many, they allow themselves to use the privileges they receive to better themselves, but are still good people. Some, however, let it consume them."

Derek growled for the first time since they were "captured," his fists clinched. "Even the Great One would pardon me if I would have killed him if I knew this."

"I would have settled with punching him in the face and locking him in a hole for the rest of his life," Patrick said.

Julie rested her hand on Patrick's shoulders. "I can't blame you. You aren't from around here, are you?"

"Melita area, way to the west," Patrick replied.

"News like what happened here in Atwood would be unlikely to reach Winnipeg or Mord-Wink, much less Melita. The DBS has a tight policy on the 'bad' news they can give, and almost never about the RAMP unless it's too big to keep under wraps. And other networks, of course, might be interested, but going to Winnipeg is a dangerous proposition." Julie stood up. "So we've been hiding, hoping we can find a way out of here, out of Assiniboia."

"Why don't you just go to Winnipeg, heck even to Melita?" Patrick wondered. "I'm sure you can blend in there, away from Sergeant Black. Winnipeg is a big place after all."

"No." Julie stated. "So long as he is in the RAMP, we can't risk living anywhere where the RAMP has legal authority. That's why…"

A gunshot echoed really close by, making everyone stop in surprise. Mabel and Mike twisted around, trying to find where the gunshot came from. It sounded like it was just to the south, where Patrick and Derek had been captured. Mike dashed off, followed closely behind by Mabel.

"That sounded like one of the traps they set up," Julie said, shaking her head. "I don't want to resort to violence, but they insisted on those rigged shotguns, even as an early warning signal."

"To bad it didn't work," a smug voice said behind Julie. Julie spun around, and there stood Sergeant Black in the early evening twilight, his .44 Magnum pointed at her head. There was a short gun battle down the river, followed by some screams, and then silence.

"Good thing I decided to follow you Patrick. This gang of criminals and traitors was too much for you and your tribal friend, it seems, trying to twist their lies into your ears." The Sergeant walked up to Julie, before forcing her hands behind her back and handcuffing her, while she struggled. "Come along, Minister," the sergeant said with as much vile as he could ladle onto the title, "you have some crimes to answer to."

"Wait a minute, Sergeant," Patrick said, marching over to the RAMP officer, and gently pushing the handcuffed minister to the side, and away from Sergeant Black. "If Julie is accused of Undermining the Dominion, she can't be tried in Atwood, and needs to be taken to a Dominion penitentiary, due to her being too dangerous to being held in a small town jail."

The Sergeant looked at Patrick with a condescending smear. "Where the hell did you hear that? Some little fairy come by to give you all the answers, huh?"

"It would just make sense, no?" Patrick said. "After all, if she is as dangerous of a traitor as you claim, then she might cause a riot in Atwood, for example." Patrick crossed his arms. "And what would happen if the RAMP would have to send men down to investigate a riot? What might they uncover?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Auxiliary?"

"I think you know what I'm talking about, Sergeant," Patrick said.

The radio on Sergeant Black's hip came to life, and he pulled it off his belt and and spoke into it. After hearing the garbled reply, which Patrick couldn't quite here, he turned back and smiled.

"I think I do understand what you are talking about, Mr. Morrison," he chuckled. "However, I think your case against me is short two legs to stand on now."

Julie cried out in shock as she realized what Sergeant Black was talking about, and began sobbing.

"You fucking bastard!" Derek shouted, jumping up and pulling out his .44 Magnum and aiming it at the Sergeant.

"Derek!" Patrick shouted as well, making the tribal hesitate from pulling the trigger., but then turned back to the Sergeant. "And you call yourself an RAMP officer."

The Sergeant's smiling face turned almost instantly into a glare. "Don't you fucking lecture me on how to be a Mountie, you do-good 'Auxiliary.' Out in the real world, you need to take some less than savory routes to keep the peace."

"Like charging a grieving woman after your 'deputies' took advantage of her daughter?" Patrick shot back. "Or smuggling who the hell knows what into Winnipeg?

"There is no proof of either anymore. She had her chance to argue that in court, but instead she fled from the law, making her a fugitive. And now she's dead. And my predecessor. Heart attack, I'll say."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Patrick growled.

"And what are you going to do about it?" Sergeant Black asked.

Patrick grabbed hold of the sergeant's arm with the gun and twisted it up, and Black, gasping in pain, instinctively pulled the trigger, making the gun fire into the dark sky, and then dropped the gun. Patrick wound up and hit the sergeant in the stomach, making him cry out as the air was driven from his lungs, ribs broken from the powerful blow. Derek, his gun still in hand, then proceeded to kick Sergeant Black in the groin. The corrupt RAMP man fell to the ground, gasping and groaning in pain, blood coming out of his nose.

Patrick, content the RAMP man was now incapacitated, went over to Julie. "Are you okay?"

Julie was staring at Sergeant Black. "I… I don't approve of violence," she said.

"I'm sorry, but it had to be done," Patrick said. Julie solemnly nodded.

Patrick then turned back to Sergeant Black. "I'm taking her into my custody, and will take her back to Winnipeg, and I'm going to let the RAMP there take care of her there," Patrick said. "Apparently since you are so understaffed, you'll be willing to let me do that, and take her off your hands, no?"

Patrick motioned to Derek to follow him as he guided a distraught and heartbroken Julie away from the corrupt officer. After only ten steps another gunshot fired, and Julie gasped, before leaning heavily on Patrick. "Ow… that hurts so much," she gasped out.

Patrick turned around, first to see a bullet hole through the back of Julie's coat, with blood oozing out, though it wasn't a huge amount so it must not have hit an artery. Patrick looked up higher to see Sergeant Black, trying to stand up and leaning against one of the posts of the shack on the river, before limping to the south to escape into the falling twilight.

Derek, having spun around at the same time, fired his revolver into the shadows of the riverbank and trees, until it clicked empty. He lowered his gun, and looked down. "I didn't hit him, sorry to say."

Patrick, however, was more concerned with Julie. He knelt down, sliding off his backpack, holding up Julie from the mud and gunk of the river. "Hold on Julie… Derek! Stimpak in my bag, now!"

Derek leaped toward Patrick's bag, rummaging through until he found a stimpak, and handing it to Patrick. Patrick uncapped it, and stuck it into Julie's arm. The chemicals in the medical device quickly stemmed the bleeding, and helped to stabilize Julie. Patrick dug into his bag and pulled out a shirt, before ripping it in half and wrapping it around Julie torso, to help stem the bleeding further.

"Let's get her out of here," Derek said. "Before the sergeant gets to his deputies and comes back."

Patrick nodded. "We can't go the way we came though."

"There's a path that…" Julie started, before taking a deep breath. "There's a path that will get us up the bank. It's right around here."

Patrick handed Julie to Derek, and he flipped on his Pip-Boy light, illuminating the encroaching darkness. He looked around, and noticed a small bush that seemed out of place on the riverbank. Patrick moved it to the side, but it just fell over, revealing a path that lead up the bank.

"Right here," Patrick half-shouted, half-whispered back, and a moment later Derek and Julie were up to Patrick, and they climbed up the path until the stepped onto flat prairie once again. They walked along the river, until the stumbled upon the two sleipnirs, still grazing the Wasteland Prairie as if nothing happened. Derek went ahead and untied the white and grey stallion from it's post.

"Alright, we should get you to Winnipeg," Patrick said, looking at Julie. "You should get up there as soon as you can, as the stimpak can't hold you over forever."

Julie nodded. "I'm feeling much better already, but I need to tell the RAMP what happened. Whatever happens to me now, I need to bring Sergeant Black to justice."

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to prevent him from shooting you, or killing your friends," Patrick said, before digging into his pockets for the recipets. "Might want to take these too."

"You did your best, Auxiliary. Don't worry about that," Julie said.

The two men helped the weak, injured and tired Julie up onto Aradesh.

"I can take her, Patrick," Derek said, after they loaded her up. "I will take good care of her, and make sure she get's to Winnipeg safe and sound."

Patrick smiled. "Thank you Derek. I know you don't want to go to America with me, but hopefully we can meet up again soon."

Derek nodded, and mounted Aradesh, climbing onto the saddle in front of Julie to help guide the beast, and then stretched out his hand. "Good luck, PatrickMorrison, and may the Great One guide you and keep you."

Patrick clasped Derek's hand and gave it a firm shake, before letting go and allowing Derek and Julie to ride off to the north.

Patrick watched as they went off, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. When he could no longer see them, he turned around and looked south.

He couldn't show his face in Atwood now. If Sergeant Black made it back to town, he would be hunting down Patrick and Julie, so he would most likely have to go around the town to the west, then head straight down there to the Great American Caravan Company outpost. Patrick sighed, and untied Demon, and mounted him. It was going to be a long night.

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #287

The Church of Assiniboia: A Brief History

After the War of 2077, there were many survivors who had lost faith in God and the Word, and either left the flock to join the many cults that sprang up, or renounced religion all together. With such death and destruction from the nuclear war, and the gutting of entire nations and cities with fire and brimstone, it was understandable, though a sad reaction to the state of the world. However, there were some whose faith did not waver, and believed that, even in those dark times straight from the Book of Revelations, that God had not abandoned them, and that Jesus would return and bring those that deserved it into the light.

In the early years in Winnipeg, the various churches, mosques, synagogues and temples of many religions and of different denominations all worked together to provide charity, health, education and faith to those that needed it, to provide some hope in the times of anguish and sorrow. In those years working together, it became clear amongst the groups that they had much more in common than they realized.

While those that believed in Judaism and Islam still follow their ancient teachings as is their right in the Dominion, the various denominations of the Christian faith decided to continue working together, and formed the Church of Assiniboia to pool resources and continue to aid the poor, the ill, and those seeking a better life through faith or education. In 2096, the Dominion government agreed to fund our activities, and allowed us to establish churches, schools, hospitals, food kitchens, farms, workshops and many other activities to help the people of the nation. In return, the Church vowed to remain non-partisan and non-political, except at a local level; would not force our religion on anyone; nor turn away anyone for their beliefs.

Many of the most well known men and women in Assiniboia's history have been ministers of followers of the Church of Assiniboia over the decades, and the flock has grown to the point where 200,000 people come to services every week. The old petty grievances of how to properly worship the Lord and his Son have long since been set aside, and we allow all those that profess a belief in Christianity to worship as they choose (so long as it's not illegal under secular law). The shared values of charity, faith, teaching, healing, and enlightenment is our goal, and has been since he began, and will be our goal until the end of time.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

The long hours of dragged on slowly and almost painfully for Patrick. He had his Service rifle on his lap, ready to shoot at whoever might find him, if they were looking for him. His stomach growled at how he hadn't eaten since lunch time at Atwood, and his eyes tried to close, to remind Patrick he hadn't slept since the train ride from Winnipeg to Vault H, which felt like years, not the 24 or so hours it had been now. But he had to at least get to Red River America before he could rest.

He shook his head, partially to stay awake, but mostly at the incredulity of what just happened. Was he an outlaw now, after taking part in shooting and attacking a RAMP officer, no matter how corrupt he actually was? Or would it all blow over, and Sergeant Black would soon no longer be wearing that uniform?

In his tired daze, Patrick couldn't begin to guess.

Around 1 AM, he noticed a small object pointing out of the ground ahead of him in the pale moonlight. Patrick urged Demon closer before dismounting and, taking a few cautious steps in the darkness walked up, fumbling for his Pip-Boy Light, and shined it on the object ahead.

It was a small Obelisk, about three feet high, cracked and broken in some places, but still remarkably intact. The side he was looking at had "CANADA" etched in large letters, and on the opposite side was "UNITED STATES." On the other two sides were "INTERNATIONAL BOUNDARY" and "TREATY OF 1925."

Patrick looked at the marker for a long moment, and he could feel his heart began to pound, his face turned red in anger.

But… why? Why am I angry?

The question pierced into Patrick, and he stopped. Why was he suddenly angry at a stone marker? He shook his head. He was tired. He knew the answer: the old United States was evil, annexing Canada and dropping the nukes that ended the old world. Everyone knew that. He knew that.

How do you know that?

Another unbidden question. He was taught it. His teachers were always very aggressive about how the US was the aggressor, how they marched in and annexed old Canada before the War of 2077, and how they treated Canadians both before and after the Annexation, as little more than misguided children. The Radio, the Dominion Broadcast Service, always made the US and Americans the villains. And the American territories were a hot pocket of rebellion that just wouldn't stay down, as the news said. Even the books Patrick read that were printed soon after the Dominion was created was the same: mournful for old Canada, decrying how the long standing friendship between the two nations fell apart so quickly during the Resource Wars, but no less nationalistic about how Assiniboia would soon recover what had been lost to the US: it's patriotism, it's pride, it's strength.

But is Assiniboia really like that?

Patrick growled. He couldn't – or maybe shouldn't – dwell on it too much. His entire life, he had been told that the Dominion of Assiniboia was the best thing in the post-apocalyptic world. And, for all he knew then, it was: he went to school, there was an army and police force to keep the nation protected.

Where were they when Zach was taken? And the family destroyed?

Patrick growled again. Fine. It was the failure of the army and RAMP to keep the raiders out of Waskada that lead to Patrick now wandering in the dark south into the old USA. But that didn't mean that Assiniboia was wrong. Right?

How can you know that?

"Oh shut up!" Patrick swore at himself, making Demon's ears turn back, then give a soft nicker of tiredness and exhaustion. He wasn't doing so good going on all night like this, just like his rider. But Demon bent down and kept eating at the short, brown grass.

But the thoughts in the human's mind wouldn't be banished. In the past three weeks, Patrick had seen what Assiniboia really was, and it was a scary, terrifying reality that shattered his whole outlook when he was just a simple farmer. Assiniboia was a weird contradiction of Police State, Democracy, Autocracy and Anarchy, with a hint of Empire and nearly failed state thrown in. Was it because of the post-apocalyptic wasteland Assiniboia was perched in that required it to be like this?

Or is it the people that run the nation? The politicians, the bankers, the caravan owners, people like the Overseer and Sergeant Black, all trying to gain power at the expense of everyone else?

Patrick raised his hand to his face, groaning loudly. He told himself he would not think about this, yet here he was, talking to himself and trying to figure out all the world's ills. He already had enough problems to deal with: his brother kidnapped, his grandfather dead, his grandma injured by raiders, his nation on the brink of war and himself being dragged into it…

And what can you do about it?

Patrick stopped, and stared at the marker, the one that marked the border between two nations long since dead. He was bringing up issues bigger than himself.. What did it matter? It's not like he could stop a war between Assiniboia and the Brotherhood from breaking out. Hell, even if the Militia were drafted he most likely wouldn't make a huge difference in battles with hundreds, if not thousands, of other men and boys like him. He was just another grain of sand in the vast deserts way down south, blown about by the winds of fate.

So why are you here now? If you are nothing, why are you here?

Patrick turned away from the marker and back to Demon, but stopped mid-stride. Then he turned again, ran up to the stone marker and with a loud war cry kicked it with all his might.

"I. Am. Going. To. Find. My. Brother!" Patrick screamed at the top of his lungs, each words punctuated with another kick at the border marker. "Shut up, shut up, shut up! Stop saying I can't!"

Despite the fragility of the outward appearance, the concrete marker barely budged from its spot. Patrick groaned and winced as his foot flared up in pain at the stupid move he just did.

But there was no smart remarks back in his mind. No inner doubt said anything. Maybe Patrick had scared it away. Or, more likely, it was biding it's time for when Patrick was again at his weakest.

Or maybe…

Patrick sighed, then limped back over to Demon, obliviously munching on some standing grass, and pulled off his sleeping bag. Might as well rest here for the night now, right next to a monument of a long gone world, and a reminder of how it all had changed.

The journey from the border to the town of Brahmin Crossing took the entire day, and Patrick was only reaching the town as the sun began to set again. When Patrick looked around, part of him knew it was a different land, but the differences were very small. The old road signs were in the shape of shields instead of rectangles, first of all. The old white and black route markers with a green "MANITOBA" scrawled on them he grew up with had been replaced by simple white metal shields with the number of the route. The highway he mostly followed was, according to the signs he saw, called an "Interstate," and the shield for that was blue and red, with a white 29 on it, marking it, at least if Patrick was correct, Interstate 29. But the old farms, cars and even the rusty barbed wire fences were virtually the same.

Brahmin Springs was a surprisingly large settlement: some of the buildings here were built out of wood and stones taken from the river, which made the town look nicer than most towns in Assiniboia that Patrick had been through. There were of course still buildings and home made out of any scrap metal one could find, but they were mostly on the outskirts of town as Patrick approached. But Brahmin Springs itself wasn't a pre-war town, so there was no ruins either, which made it rather unique as a town as well.

Patrick guided Demon down the interstate, before coming to a stop outside an old-world motel with some lights burning in the windows. Patrick dismounted from Demon, lead him to the trough of water outside and tied him up, which the sleipnir gratefully began to drink from. He pulled off his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, making sure all his guns were with him, before walking into the motel.

A young man with several days of light blonde stubble on his chin to match the long hair on his head was flipping through an old copy of Guns and Bullets, namely as they haven't made one since 2077. He looked up as he heard Patrick walk in.

"Can I help you?" he asked, annoyed at being interrupted from his magazine.

"Can I get a room?" Patrick asked back.

The young man answered almost before Patrick could finish. "No vacancy," he stated, turning back to his magazine.

Patrick was surprised at how the young man said that. "Is there another…?"

"No, there isn't another place you can get a room, you damn Assie," he spat out.

Patrick jerked back. "How…?"

"I can tell. All you damned Assie bastards make yourselves high and mighty, lording it over us because you conquered us. Why the hell don't you just go back to your pretty little country and leave us alone?"

Patrick stood there in shocked silence for a long moment. "I… I'm not like that," Patrick stammered out.

"Everyone says that, then the next moment they order us Americans around like we are your slaves. We aren't fucking slaves! We are free men, and we deserve to be treated as such!" the young man growled back, standing up, and letting the old magazine fall away to show that he was actually reading a cheaply printed pamphlet by the Organization for a Free Dakota, similar to the thing Patrick had read on his Pip-Boy earlier.

Patrick didn't say anything, only reached down into his pocket and pulling out his RAMP Auxiliary badge, and set it on the desk, facing the young man.

But the badge did its job. The young man immediately stiffened up, trying his best (and failing) at hiding the pamphlet. "I… uh…"

"Look," Patrick said, slipping his badge away. "I just want a place to sleep for tonight. Is that too much to ask for?"

The young man nodded nervously, before running to the wall behind him and grabbing a key. "Room 3A, just down the hall," he said, trying to force a smile.

Patrick didn't smile. "And can I have my sleipnir taken care of, please?"

"I'll get the livery stable to take care of him," the blonde man croaked.

Patrick started to walk to the door to the hall to his room. "Oh, and tell the man to be careful. Demon is a feisty thing."

Patrick turned around and continued on to the room he had finally been given. He opened it up, dumped his backpack on the floor, un-holstered his .44 and slipped it under his pillow. Swiftly undressing, Patrick then climbed into the bed and almost instantly fell asleep, though he was worried that he was going to not wake up the next morning should that young man suddenly lash out and decide to kill him.

But that didn't happen, and Patrick got a decent twelve hours of sleep. When Patrick came out to the main lobby the next morning, after washing up with the cold water in the basin in his room and wearing another change of clothes, he found an older blonde man sitting behind the desk, flipping through the same magazine as the young man last night, but this time was reading it and not the pamphlet. This older man looked to be the father of the rude kid from last night. He was a bit shorter, a bit thicker, and with a beard and mustache, the "Ol' Prospector" look that Patrick had seen on the men who had come from the Rockies to Melita.

"Excuse me," Patrick started, making the man turn around.

"Ah, you must have been the RAMP guy that came in last night," he said, chuckling. "I do apologize for my nephew. Carroll has it in his mind that Assiniboia are the bad guys. Of course, when you are 17, you are pretty quick to judge." He picked up the pamphlet. "Of course, many people older than 17 also think this is the Holy Word."

"What about you?" Patrick asked, sitting down in the chair across from the man.

The man chuckled. "I neither wholeheartedly support the Dominion, or stand against it. I'm a businessman first and foremost, and Assiniboia has provided the economic basis and security needed to allow me to be a businessman.

"And, silly me, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is William Kovak, but you can call me Bill." He offered a hand to Patrick, who took it, and introduced himself.

Bill Kovak turned out to be one of most successful businessmen in town, running not just the motel - which used to be a pre-war structure that the rest of the town was built around, apparently, - but also a restaurant, a general store, and a decent sized Brahmin herd that supplied a huge chunk of the region with fresh meat. He wasn't mayor, but Patrick was sure he had a bit of pull in the community.

"So, tell me Patrick, why are you down here? We have an RAMP detachment here, so I'm curious as to why an auxiliary is here?"

"I'm here on Dominion business," Patrick said. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find the Great American Caravan Company?"

"The GACC?" Bill said, before leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, they have a small outpost to the west, but they don't trade here in Brahmin Springs or with any of the other trading caravans, mine included. They seemed more focused with moving goods from the south, beyond the Brotherhood front line, and heading it up North to Assiniboia. Have no idea how they manage to do that, but they aren't exactly willing to share how."

"Why is that an issue?"

"Because south of here is basically Grand Forks, then Fargo, then the land that the Brotherhood of Steel controls," Bill said. "And it's not like the Brotherhood is much interested in trading with Assiniboia right now."

Patrick scratched his chin. He needed a shave. "Interesting. I need to investigate that."

It was hard to tell through the thick hair on his head, but Bill's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but then returned and looked over Patrick. "They aren't exactly welcoming of outsiders, you know."

"All the more reason I need to look into it."

Bill shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'm not going to stop you. You would most likely know the danger, eh?"

Patrick nodded. "I know the dangers, but I need to do it."

"Well, their outpost is about 20 miles to the east. They have fancy robots and heavily armed guards, but a smart guy like you should be able to get in."

Patrick snorted, but didn't say anything. He had got in and out of some hard places already, so what was one more?

The GACC Outpost wasn't anything too fancy. A few of the big Corvega's and Highwaymen on their sides formed a perimeter around a few smaller buildings, one of which looked like an old-world barn that looked like some giant monster had taken huge bites out of it, and had been half-patched by old sheet metal and plywood that had been scavenged from some old town ruin. Outside of it were some robots, Protectron shambling back and forth, along with some robo-brains rumbling over the dusty ground.

Patrick was sitting on Demon on a ridge to the west, peering through binoculars that he bought from Bill Kovac in Brahmin Springs, trying to find a way into the camp. None of the robots seem to have noticed him, and Patrick made sure that he wouldn't step too close.

In the two hours he looked around, he hadn't found a way in, and hadn't seen a caravan come in or go out. He also hadn't seen anyone wander around the camp, which raised the question if the camp was evening being used anymore.

Eventually Patrick noticed one Protectron who wandered in a rather random pattern around the outpost, colliding with other robots, walking in zigzag lines before going in circles, before stopping and randomly firing at a random spot on the ground. The programming on it must have been faulty, but there was something about it: it managed to walk past the robots that maintained silent vigil at the gates. Patrick focused on the clunky machine, and noticed a red metal patch that was out of place on the front of the robot, similar to some of the other robots that were walking around. Patrick theorized that the metal device must have been a security card that would allow anyone that held it to walk in without a problem.

Patrick urged Demon to move closer to where that wayward Protectron was wandering, and pulled out his R91 assault rifle that he hadn't used since he got it at Waskada. He aimed down the iron sights, following the robot until he was sure it was out of range of the other protecting robots. Patrick pulled the trigger, and the gun barked out three shots, clanging off the metal. The robot shuddered to a stop, and the robot turned its upper-body to face where it was being shot from.

"Hostile threats detected, please stand by," the robot shouted in it's monotone, firing from its two arms as it started walking up the ridge toward Patrick, though most of the laser bolts failed to even come close to the sleipnir nor its rider. Demon still snorted and shuffled back and forth as the bolts of red energy shot towards them, but none were close.

Patrick fired three more shots, then three more, all of them clanging off the Protectron. Patrick grabbed Demon's reins and turned him around, and galloped him down the hill, then circled Demon around to appear behind the robot. Patrick pulled his rifle out again, and fired it some more, making the robot stumble again, struggling to figure out where it was being fired on. Patrick fired some more, before his assault rifle clicked empty. Patrick yanked out the curved clip, and reached into a ammo pocket and pulled another clip, and clicked it into place, before pulling the trigger and firing at the robot again.

"Target acquired!" the robot shouted again, firing it's three lasers. However Patrick continued to fire, this time nearly one handed, while he used the reins to wheel Demon around and around the robot as it continued to shoot it's lasers.

Eventually, after expending another clip, Patrick jumped off Demon when the robot was facing the wrong way, and used the butt of his gun to knock it down.

"Incapacitated: unable to continue," the Protectron stated after it fell down and was unable to get it's clunky body to stand up again. "Initiating self-destruction sequence."

Patrick gasped, before jumping back, just in time before the glass head of the robot exploded. Demon whinnied and reared up in shock as electronic bits and glass flew past. After a moment Patrick finally stood up and looked around, and saw that the destroyed robot was totally inert. He stood up and dusted himself off, and walked over, looking at the red chip attached to it. Patrick noticed it had some writing on it, and most of it had been painted over. What he could tell was that it was used as an identification chip, which made Patrick grin. It was exactly what he needed to sneak into the Great American Caravan Company.

Patrick mounted Demon again and rode on over to the outpost. Each robot that came close flashed its warning lights, but as it came close and managed to scan Patrick, it read the red identification card, and apologized in it's robotic manner, and carried on with it's programmed path.

"Identification please," the two Protectron's at the main gate chimed out at the same time. Patrick flashed the chip again, and after a moment both Protectron's glass domes blinked green. "Welcome to the Great American Caravan Company. Please enter."

Patrick grinned and carried on in. "That was remarkably easy..." he muttered to himself.

"Hold it right there, trespasser," a human voice shouted, making Patrick pull Demon to a snorting halt, and the Assiniboian grimace.

Patrick turned around to see a 50 some-year old man in a rugged set of clothes, holding a 10 mm pistol at him. "Alright you… what are you doing here?"

Patrick chewed his lip. "I'm here to trade with the Great American Caravan Company," he said.

"We don't trade with individuals," the man said, aiming his gun more securely. "Get off that sleipnir."

Patrick slowly climbed down, making sure his hands were visible at all times. When he climbed down, the GACC man came around and grabbed hold of Patrick's backpack, and quickly began to rummage through, pulling out Patrick's Service rifle, his 10 mm pistol, the R91 assault rifle that he used against the robot earlier, and his unused knives, as well as other food and medical supplies. The man grumbled, and tossed the backpack to the side. Patrick was thankful that the man hadn't noticed the .44 Magnum on his hip… yet.

"You have no goods that we would want to trade with anyway. So I'm going ask again," the man said, aiming the 10mm pistol again at Patrick's head. "Why are you here?"

Patrick took a deep breath. "I'm here on RAMP business," he said. "I'm just here to investigate some… irregularities that have been found up north."

"And what would those be?" the man said.

"Large payments to Vault H, and how supplies from your company ended up in the hands of gangs and criminals in Winnipeg," Patrick replied.

"The Great American Caravan Company does not trade with bad guys," the man replied. "So it must be someone else tarnishing our name."

"What name? I've never even heard of you guys until recently," Patrick said. "You don't trade with other towns, I've never even seen a caravan, or any supplies shipped by you."

"Because we don't nose into other people's business!" the man growled. "We move the supplies we are contracted to move, and that's that. Nothing flashy, nothing big, nothing wrong. Just business."

"Then how do you have the money to pay Vault H hundreds of thousands of pounds?" Patrick asked. "If you aren't trading that much, how can you make so much money?"

The man growled. "Enough! I oughta shoot you in the head and get rid of you right now."

"Fine, do it," Patrick said, making the man blink in surprise. "Shoot a member of the RAMP Auxiliary. In Assiniboian territory. In an area that, if I remember correctly, is still under martial law. The Army could easily brush aside those robots outside, considering that they must not have been in great shape to begin with. And then what will happen? I'd think you'd rather live than have to face not only the RAMP, but the Assiniboian Army too."

The man's hand was trembling, though from worry or from holding the gun upright for so long, Patrick didn't know. He finally lowered the pistol.

"There, was that so hard?" Patrick asked.

The man sighed. "Alright, look. The GACC was my company. I spent years down south, trading between different settlements, even got the robots to help me transport goods from place to place. I had a pretty good life. Until the Brotherhood of Steel took over my town in South Dakota, and basically made me work with them."

"What do you do?" Patrick asked, lowering his arms finally. "Also, what is your name?"

"Kevin Verman," the caravan man said. "It's my job to go across the border and take stuff from BoS suppliers up to Winnipeg."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. All the packages are specially sealed. In the event they are tampered with, explosives will destroy the contents. So I've never looked."

Patrick frowned. "Then the money paid to Vault H, where does that come from? And the computer supplies they make?"

"The money is all counterfeit. All of it was printed down in Brotherhood territory, and brought back up. They are indistinguishable from the actual Assiniboian Pound notes. That's how I paid Vault H. The computer parts all go back to the Brotherhood for… whatever they do with it."

Patrick took a deep breath. "That's… not good."

"Yeah, and if the BoS finds out that I just told you all this, I'm dead. You'll be dead too."

"I can take care of myself," Patrick said.

"And the Fist of Steel has killed almost anyone that their Elder has told them to kill," Kevin replied. "I'd recommend just leaving, and going back to where you came from."

Patrick shook his head. "I can't. But don't worry about me."

Kevin shrugged. "Your loss." He looked around. "Eitherway, I need to go. Maybe west. Gotta get out of here now. You better leave as well."

Kevin scurried away to a hut nearby, leaving Patrick standing in the middle of the packed earth courtyard.

Well, that was surprisingly easy to sort out, more or less. Patrick thought, walking over to get his backpack, wandered around the otherwise anti-climatically abandoned place to see if there was anything useful, and climbed back onto Demon when he was sure no one else was there he could talk to.

As Patrick and Demon left the outpost, Patrick began to think.

"If the Great American Caravan Company was a front for the Brotherhood of Steel, then why wasn't there Brotherhood soldiers or agents at the outpost to protect it?" he thought out loud. "Why was there only a single man at the camp? Shouldn't there be more people?"

"Very smart man, you are," a woman shouted at Patrick, only a few feet away. Patrick yanked on Demon's reins, pulling the sleipnir to a halt.

Patrick looked over to see a woman in a ragged robe with bits of metal attached and dangling from her clothes. Despite the appearance of a ragged and dirty vagabond, she held herself with a dignity and grace that bespoke someone higher than she was imitating. And the large laser pistol in her hand didn't help things either.

"And you are just the guy I wanted to talk to." She chuckled, walking closer to Patrick. "Come on, come on, I won't shoot you. I just want to talk."

"How can I trust you after you pulled a gun on me?" Patrick asked, his own hand reaching for his .44 Magnum.

"To be fair, you can't," she said. "But I've been meaning to find you anyway, so why don't you come down and we can talk?"

Patrick looked at the woman for a moment, but eventually Patrick swung down, and walked over to the woman, pulling Demon along with him.

"I'm Paladin Lord Ariel of the Brotherhood of Steel," she said, giving a small bow, "and I've been sent to meet with you by the High Elder himself."

Patrick tied Demon to a nearby pole. "Oh really? Why would he want to talk to me? I'm just an ordinary Assiniboian."

Ariel chuckled. "You are very modest for your many achievements thus far." She waved Patrick to dismount off Demon. "The Brotherhood knows much of your achievements so far: defeating raiders, defeating cannibals, wiping out traitors throughout Assiniboia for your government. Very commendable, I must say, even if we do not agree with the results."

Patrick finally swung off of Demon and landed on the ground, kicking up dust. "So why do you want to talk to me if you know I'm both an Assiniboian and have been working against you?"

Ariel drummed her fingers together. "It's because we believe that you have only not been shown the truth, what Assiniboia actually stands for, and that due to lies and propaganda you are not aware of what the Brotherhood hopes to accomplish."

"Alright then. Tell me," Patrick said, crossing his arms, Demon's reins still in his hand.

"And open minded too… maybe we can work something out," she said with a smile. "We have learned the history of Assiniboia, as we have learned knowing your opponent's background is as important as their tactics and weaknesses. Your nation was established by the remnants of a pre-war government, that of old Canada, and set it up in such a way as to guarantee their power and success in a world that no longer exists. The name 'Dominion' is one example, as it used to be the name of the former colonies of a great Empire that spanned the world, and whose flag is still placed on your new nation, though no one knows what 'Great Britain' was. Their so-called 'democracy,' is only open for those that agree with the Dominion, and elections are not as free and open as they could be.

"The Brotherhood, as you would not have been told, was created from those that served the United States of America, but revolted when they realized the immoral and inhumane experiments that scientists conducted were evil and despicable. Our first great leader, Roger Maxson, lead the Brotherhood on a quest to reclaim the technology from before the Great War, and to preserve it, and eventually reintroduce it into the new civilization that would rise from the ashes and radioactive ruins of the old.

"The Brotherhood of Steel was first established in California, and after a great fight against monsters that were created from the same horrid experiments that Elder Maxson revolted against, a faction was sent to the Midwest to pursue and destroy them. That was nearly 50 years ago. The Brotherhood, unfortunately, has split again and again as those that disagreed with the leaders of one group Brotherhood left to establish new factions. However, we tolerated this, and there has been peace amongst the Brotherhood States of the Midwest.

"The one this far north is known as the Minneapolis Brotherhood of Steel, and we believed that we must help the people of the Wasteland to adapt to the technology we have, including allowing those strong, brave and smart enough to join our ranks. So that is our goal: to rebuild the Wasteland in a new world of peace and security."

"Then why did you burn down Fargo 18 years ago?" Patrick asked.

She didn't even blink. "It was because of faulty intelligence. We were not aware of the existence of Assiniboia before that time, and the people of Fargo were both insolent and demeaning the Brotherhood Paladins and Knights who were sent to explore the town. The Brotherhood, however, maintained our fire and did our best to not let the situation escalate, as we had no interest in fighting. But when we were fired upon, we had to retaliate, and the commander decided the best way to prove our strength and to set an example of what happens when our patience is exhausted was to burn the town, kill half the men and women, and take all the children back to the Brotherhood."

"But the RAMP and Army managed to wipe out that force," Patrick said.

"I cannot deny that. Assiniboian Snipers and sleipnir riders killed all but one of the men of that force, and that man, Paladin Ezekiel, is now the Elder of the Brotherhood. That unprovoked attack on our men at Fargo lead to the First Assiniboian-Brotherhood War, which was vicious, deadly, and costly, and done much damage to the people of North Dakota, Minnesota, and into the homelands of Assiniboia." Ariel sounded genuinely regretful as she said it. "But now the madmen in Winnipeg seek to bring war to the Wasteland again, and the Brotherhood is standing up against the forces of imperialism and the old-world mentality that lead to the Great War that erased the world of life 140 years ago."

Patrick stood there. The memories of the other night near Atwood came flooding back, the self-argument he had. But he finally shook his head. "No."

"No?" Paladin Ariel said in surprise

"No," Patrick firmly stated. "I cannot agree with everything Assiniboia has done. I have learned a lot since I've set out only two weeks ago to find my brother, and how my image of Assiniboia has been tarnished. But it's still my country, and I might be able to help make it a better place."

"You can do that by helping the Brotherhood," Ariel replied. "We do not wish to destroy Assiniboia. North of the old border, Assiniboia is strong, powerful and mighty. But south of those old stone markers, the ones that mark the old, arbitrary line of two great nations, the people are held in involuntary bondage, and the Brotherhood wishes to help those people."

"But if I help you, then I will be considered a traitor by Assiniboia," Patrick said.

"Won't the knowledge that you helped the people under oppression live a better, more fulfilling life help you?" she asked. "What do you want instead? Money? The Brotherhood has great wealth. Power? You help us, you will be made a great leader. Fame? Your name would live in the annals of the Brotherhood forevermore."

Patrick exhaled. "All I want - all I've ever set out to do – is to find my brother. I don't give a damn if I have no money, if I'm forgotten or if I lead anything. All I want is to find my brother, who was kidnapped from his home by raiders, and is now missing."

Ariel paused for a moment. "Seeking to reunite a family is a great ambition."

"Can the Brotherhood help me find my brother?" Patrick asked.

"I… I cannot say." Ariel held out her hands. "It's an unfortunate thing to have happened, but there are more important things in this world."

Patrick growled. "There is nothing more important than my family."

"The Brotherhood is a family," Ariel replied. "The most important family in the world."

"Then why did you all start breaking up? Why, if you are a family, are you seeking to destroy Assiniboia."

Paladin Ariel stood there, stone faced.

"But if you can't help me, then I will not help the Brotherhood," Patrick said, turning around and climbing back up onto the impatient jet black sleipnir behind him.

Ariel stood there. "I understand, and respect, your decision, even though I'm disappointed. Patrick Morrison, the next time we meet, I cannot guarantee I, nor any of my brother's or sisters in arms, won't try to kill you, as much as your loyalty and dedication would have made you a great Paladin of the Brotherhood." She gave a low bow. "Mr. Morrison, I bid you a fond farewell."

Patrick nodded in return, and led Demon back to Brahmin Springs. After a few moments, he turned around, but the vast, windswept prairie gave no sign to show another person had once stood there.

Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note ERROR

The True History of Assiniboia

Distributed by the Organization for a Free Dakota

The Dominion of Assiniboia is a lie. It's a tool of corrupt oligarchs and imperialist warmongers who seek only to enrich themselves at the expense of the people. The Rediboine Trading Company, and it's exorbitant monopoly and prices on the most essential food, medicine and other supplies, is the best example, but we can tell you of many others.

They expand into lands that were never even remotely considered theirs, all in the name of "civilization." But the "civilization" they bring to areas like the North and Midwest Commonwealths within their grasp is a sham. They crush all free speech that is counter to theirs, impose heavy taxes for an army that kills and maims all opposition, they demolish the councils, the mayors and governments of the towns, settlements and lands they claim as their own, all in the name of removing "anarchy" and "tribalism" from their monolithic One-World Order. They redraw borders to suit their own goals, dividing families and communities.

They say they enshrine free religion, free speech and free voting, but every month our shamans are killed or imprisoned, while their "Christian" faith is given preferential treatment. Anyone who dares exercise free speech and speaks out against these crimes are taken away in the dark of night by the Red Terror, their "Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police," who are nothing more than brutish guard dogs for violent masters. And when does voting occur? If you are in a territory, never: the army maintains a dictatorship until the fat cats in Winnipeg decide the people are safe enough to vote for them and not anyone who opposes them. If you are in a district, you get to vote only for the candidates that they approve, all of whom are in the pockets of the Rediboine, the CPR, the Army, the Bank, the fat-cats on Wellington Crescent. Even the so-called "Grits" Party, which claims to support the rights of those in Dakota, do nothing more than talk, with no action. The Tories and Whigs are even worse, as they don't even talk about us, unless it's to humiliate and torture us more.

This is not freedom. This is tyranny. This is the government of the few, by the few, supported on the blood, sweat and tears of the many.

There is a way to bring this rotten structure down. Civil disobedience: fight the oppressors with love, know the evil they perpetrate, but do not comply. Make them force you out of your chair of Freedom that you all sit in.

DO NOT LET THEM WIN. DO NOT GIVE UP. ASSINIBOIA WILL DESTROY ITSELF WHEN THE PEOPLE KNOW THEY ARE LIED TO. SPREAD THIS FAR AND WIDE. MAKE EVERYONE KNOW!

*Code to allow further transmission to follow:*

HO**D922-#)0*DW82002F)KDO022KG990S-SKRK44MFOF0-F-S0W2M2O2S


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Patrick and Demon arrived back at Brahmin Crossing as the sun began to set once again. The two made their way back to the motel Patrick had stayed the night over, and as he walked in, he noticed Bill Kovak was sitting back at the front desk, flipping through a new magazine this time. When the door opened, he turned to see the arrival, and dropped the magazine.

"You made it back alive?" Bill said in astonishment.

"Yeah, though it wasn't easy, heh," Patrick said, but didn't say anymore. "So, got something to eat?"

Bill brought out a Brahmin steak and set out a bottle of beer. Patrick scarfed down the deliciously cooked meat and nearly inhaled the beer that wasn't irradiated or warm, but relatively fresh. It was the product of a small town in Assiniboia that was devoted solely to producing alcohol, closely guarded by heavily armed mercenaries. While he wasn't much a drinker, he wasn't going to turn down such a drink

The conversation they had while Patrick ate was, much to Patrick's enjoyment, didn't involve any political or philosophical questions about what Assiniboia was or wasn't. It was just stories and gossip, more or less. Patrick didn't know any of the people in the stories, but the crazy escapades of some of the town's folk in Brahmin Crossing was enough to bring a smile to his face.

A few hours and a few bottles of beer later, the door to the motel swung open, letting in a frigid, biting wind, and in walked a trembling old man with a thin, white scraggly beard, eyes wide with fright, making both Bill Kovak and Patrick turnaround to see who it was..

"Th-those lights again! Those angry lights!" he stammered, half walking, half shambling to Bill. "Those lights are out again!"

Bill grabbed hold of the old man and maneuvered him to an old, beat up couch in the corner of the room, then shut the door. "Calm down, calm down. You know lights can't do anything to you."

"But those lights spoke! They spoke some weird gibberish, like it was Aliens!" The old man exclaimed. "We got to get out of town! Got to run away! They are coming for all of us!"

Without any warning, Bill swung and smacked the old man across the face. "Calm the hell down!"

Patrick jumped up from his chair and dashed over to Bill and the old man, concern on his face.

"Easy there Patrick." Bill stepped away from the man. "This is Jimmy, and you won't find a bigger crackpot in the entire Great Plains. Aliens, conspiracy theories, secret magical vaults… he believes in them all."

Jimmy was coming about his senses by that point, rubbing the spot on his face that Bill hit him. "It's true! Strange machines hovering around, speaking something that can't be of this world, with bright lights that always try to catch me. Something is out to get me!"

"The only person out to get you is me for bringing this up again!" Bill shouted. "Now go home, and get sobered up."

Jimmy then turned to Patrick. "You! You gotta believe me!" he jumped up and grabbed Patrick's jacket. His breath did have a strong, whisky twinge to it, nearly making Patrick vomit himself. "Over there," pointing to the west, "is a place, an evil place, filled with robots and aliens, in a big hole in the ground, with a huge door with weird symbols on it!"

Patrick startled. "Wait… a hole in the ground? Like, say, a Vault?"

"Maybe? I don't know! If it is, then aliens took it over after the war and are trying to enslave all of us!"

Bill pulled Jimmy off Patrick and set him back down on the couch. "Don't listen to him, he got dropped on his head as a kid. And several times after that."

Patrick just stood there. "When I was at Vault H, they said there might be a secret Vault somewhere in old North Dakota." Patrick began stroking his chin. "If that's the case..."

"You aren't actually going to listen to Jimmy, are you?" Bill asked. "He's nuttier than a tree!"

Patrick shrugged. "I'm curious now. And if there is nothing there, nothing lost. But if something is there, it could be one of the biggest discoveries in years."

Bill furrowed his brows, before sighing. "My god, insanity is actually a disease, and you're catching it too!"

Patrick got the map coordinates of where the "aliens" might be coming from, and put them into his Pip-Boy. The device told him it would be a nearly day long trip, over 50 kilometers away from Brahmin Crossing. Patrick decided that it would be best to wait until the next day to go. Bright and early the next morning, he climbed up on Demon and headed out.

Patrick made sure to avoid the Great American Company Caravan trading post (who knew if it was gone, or if the Brotherhood of Steel decided to use it), and soon he was on what was, for all intents and purposes, a great grassy sea. In all directions, for miles and miles, nothing but brown-green grass and dust could be seen. Here and there were old farmsteads, with comfortable homes now in ruins and rusted tractors and machinery that hadn't been touched for over a century and a half. Long before the world was plunged into a nuclear abyss, the fuel needed to run the machines either ran out or became too expensive. Patrick heard stories that they had to go back to old fashioned plows and use horses and other animals, but without fertilizer and pesticides, output began to drop, and food rationing had to be put into effect in some areas. The Northern Commonwealth, which North Dakota was part of, did not have to, but many areas did.

Every mile or so there was a ridge with two dips on either side, old gravel and dirt roads that had been built to serve the farmers and those that lived so far out from the towns and cities of old America. Patrick knew this, as the area of "Westman" that he grew up in had similar mile long roads dividing the land into sections and quarters. But by now the gravel and dirt had been overgrown, and all that was left was the ridge dug out by men and machines centuries before.

Around noon, Patrick dismounted Demon and sat on the only fallen log within miles, and ate a sandwich he packed at Brahmin Crossing. As he munched on the thinly sliced Brahmin meat, he flipped on his Pip-Boy's radio. It immediately linked up with the DBS, and he managed to catch the news.

"From the Dominion Broadcasting Service in Winnipeg, this is the Noon Hour News for May 19, 2218. Good afternoon, I'm Brad Horshaw.

"Prime Minister Richard Hawkson announced that upwards of 45 million pounds will be spent this year on the Assiniboian Army, up from last year, when it was 39 million. The Prime Minister says this is due to the ongoing tensions with the Brotherhood of Steel and the need to upgrade weapons currently used by the military. When asked if this would result in higher taxes, Prime Minister Hawkson said he would talk with Finance Minister Olivia Jewels to determine if money can be found elsewhere.

"Troubling news from Brandon today; 15 pro-Assiniboian activists were executed in connection to the plot on the leader of Brandon, Big Boss, that took place two weeks ago. Thirty-two Assiniboian tourists remain under arrest in connection to the plot, though the RAMP and the Ministry of Security have repeatedly stated they had nothing to do with the assassination attempt.

"A defector from the Brotherhood of Steel was found dead in his home in Winnipeg today. Former Paladin Roger Campbell, who left the BoS in 2213 citing the extreme actions of the current Elder, was a frequent contributor to the DBS for information about the Brotherhood, and the writer of a book on some of the horrible things the Brotherhood has been doing in the past two decades. This comes on the heel of the death or disappearance of several other defectors. The RAMP had no comment as of this moment.

"Finally, the Report on the Western Expedition of 2193 has finally been released publicly after the minimum 25 years for classified documents before they can be released. Notable comments include the destruction of most of the old railway tunnels that allowed Pre-Great War trains to easily pass the Rocky Mountains, and reports of a different kind of mutated creature that inhabited the ruins of Calgary and Edmonton, named by the expedition as 'Skitters' for their small body and quick movements. However, there were small human and ghoul settlements in the region, giving hope that someday Canada may be rebuilt from sea to sea.

"That's your noon-hour news update, I'm Brad Horshaw. Please stay tuned for the North End Industries Entertainment Hour, fun for the whole family! This is DBS, the Dominion Broadcasting Service."

Patrick sighed, and turned the dial for the radio, trying to pick up another station. While Zach and Grandma had been faithful listeners of the DBS noon hour programming, Patrick had no interest in the "fun for the whole family' idea that was really just an hour of advertisements for North End Industries, the conglomerate that manufactured most of the goods in Assiniboia for the internal and foreign markets.

And now, listening to it would just bring up some painful memories.

Brandon General Radio was too far out of range, and the Brotherhood's radio network had been jammed by the RAMP since just after the outbreak of the First Brotherhood-Assiniboian War. While some areas of old-Dakota could receive the Brotherhood radio station at times, it usually wasn't for very long. There wasn't a law saying you couldn't listen to it, but the RAMP made it virtually impossible to do so.

Fargo had a radio station, and it came in, but it was mostly rock and roll music that wasn't too popular in Assiniboia, more in favor of country and the classic big band pieces. Patrick quickly turned the dial again,

Patrick's random dial turning suddenly landed on a series of beeps and chimes that were clearly mechanical in nature. It was a rather simple rhythm, before it suddenly stopped, then after a few moments started up again. After a few minutes of listening, Patrick realized it was repeating, saying the same thing over and over again.

The Pip-Boy began to beep after a moment. Patrick tapped at a few buttons, curious as to why his fancy wrist-mounted computer was making noises. Finally he got to a menu he had never seen before for on his PipBoy.

"InfoTracker has detected a non-English vocal form of communication. Would you like us to translate it for you?" Below was two options, in sync with two buttons on the Pip-Boy. Patrick tapped the "Yes" option.

"One moment: detecting language. Do not turn off the radio or restart the Pip-Boy." Patrick looked at it for a few moments, but nothing happened. He sighed, stood up and grabbed the reins again before swinging up on Demon, looking around and at the sun to make sure he was still going west and that Demon hadn't suddenly wandered the wrong way as he was looking at his Pip-Boy.

The Pip-Boy gave a triumphant computerized ditty, making Patrick look at his device again. "Language detected: MORSE CODE. Now providing translation. Note: translation will have ten second delay."

The device beeped for a few more moments, ten seconds to be exact, and then the radio message suddenly turned into a computerized voice.

"…Site V, calling Control Station ENCLAVE. Come in Control Station ENCLAVE. Contact lost with Enclave Command Structure; Enacting Emergency Protocol J-896-08c. In the event Control Station ENCLAVE resumes contact, the Emergency Protocol will be rescinded. Activated on 19 June, 2078 on authority of Secretary of Defense Donald W. Gates." Then there was a brief pause, before the computerized voice came back. "This is United States Government Site V, calling Control Station ENCLAVE. Come in…"

Patrick turned off his radio then. It was just a pre-recorded message of the old American government that had been playing for 140 years apparently. There were a lot of those messages around; occasionally the radio would suddenly start playing some looping Emergency Broadcast System alert message when the transmitter suddenly had enough power to broadcast again, using the loud tone that Assiniboia was now using for emergency in their own towns. That was always a scary moment, hearing the beeping and loud pitch that, had you not known the reason behind it, would be uncomfortable and even aggravating. One person described them as dinosaur fossils: hidden remnants of a long dead world, one that was both fascinating and sobering of what could happen to the masters of the world when their apocalypse finally came.

Patrick grabbed the reigns tighter, and continued walking west. The quiet blowing wind rustled the grass trying to grow or long dead, spinning the dust into miniature tornadoes, dust devils some people call them. Off in the distance, a coyote, perhaps one of the few creatures that wasn't horribly mutated by radiation or other ancient science, howled in the distance, making Demon startle and pause for a moment, but after a moment the eight-legged equine continued on, though more jittery than he was just a moment before.

The trip continued on and on, the sun continuing on it's ever-constant journey from east to west, the bright rays now hitting Patrick's eyes, making it harder to see as he continued to his destination. But the further Patrick continued, the further the sun went down, until finally the golden orb was starting to sink below the horizon. Patrick looked at his Pip-Boy, and zoomed in on the map, noticing that he was close to the dot that Jimmy had placed on his map, pointing out where he thought the "aliens" were. Somewhere nearby, he should find something, right?

There was a small abandoned farmstead up ahead, with a surprisingly still standing house. The two story building with a steep roof may have been painted at one point, but only flecks of dirty white amongst the otherwise weathered boards gave any indication for that. It wasn't perfect; all the windows were broken and part of the roof had fallen in, but otherwise it looked very solid. In the driveway an old pickup truck and a Corvega car sat side by side, rubber tires deflated and cracked and so red from rust it was hard to tell what color it may have been back when they would have ran. An old barn and three grain silos completed the farm scene, along with some rusted machinery parked in a line and rows of dead trees surrounding the area, a windbreak that would have prevented snow from filling the yard when miserable winters was a problem for those who decided to live out in the middle of nowhere like this.

Patrick dismounted, and tied Demon to the broken verandah that wrapped around the first floor of the house. He walked up the steps, the wood creaking and groaning in protest, but otherwise it held together. He pushed open the door on its rusty hinges, and stepped inside.

It was darker inside, both from the oncoming evening and a tree having fallen in front of the west-facing window, blocking out what little natural light there was. Patrick fumbled for the built in flashlight on his Pip-Boy, and it shone brightly, illuminating the entire room, a kitchen with a surpassingly still white refrigerator and stove, wood paneled pantries and cupboards and broken tables and chairs in a pale green light. Looking inside them all, he found some still perfectly sealed boxes of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes, Potato Chips and Salisbury Steak in the kitchen, along with some regional delicacies such as Pound-o-Pierogi and Little Miss Nancy Sugar Cookies that wasn't available outside the area. The preservatives they had been packaged with should keep the food edible, if not exactly tasty, even this long after the apocalypse. He slipped them all into his bag anyway.

He carefully began to walk through the rest of the house, doing his best avoid weak spots on the floor and fallen supports that held up the second floor. Down the hall was a living room similar to the one at his home in Melita, with a frayed and nearly destroyed couch, lounger chair, TV without a broken glass screen exposing its electronic interiors and a radio, which, when Patrick experimentally turned the dial, blared to life, static and white noise filling the room and making Patrick jump in surprise.

Patrick turned it off again, caught his breath, and continued to look at what else was in the old house. There were some stairs that lead upstairs, but Patrick wasn't sure if the second floor could handle him as well as the ground floor was. However, he noticed a door that lead to the basement. Carefully nudging the door away, the rotten wood fell apart, exposing the dark, horribly musty smelling basement.

Patrick winced at the smell, but continued down the stairs anyway. Using his flashlight, he looked around the dark basement. There were old boxes, rusty metal ones and the remains of cardboard ones, having spilled their contents on the floor around them. He looked through a few, but all he found was personal belongings, broken bottles and tin cans that may have had food or was just the remnants of a hoarder's stash. A furnace and hot water heater in the corner, as well as big bulky washing machines and dryers, stood as silent testaments of a consumerist society long since gone. Some salvagers and merchants would love places like this, but Patrick wasn't here to make a few pounds. He wouldn't have been able to carry it all if he wanted too.

But as Patrick continued walking through the darkness of the basement, it felt… odd. Despite nothing being functional as he could see, Patrick could feel a dull throb, similar to how it felt like when he was a train. He couldn't hear it, but subtle vibrations underfoot made him uncomfortable, and maybe just a little disoriented. Why did it feel like machinery was running nearby?

Patrick continued looking through the basement, but couldn't find anything else. He turned around, climbed back up the stairs, and looked around the first floor again. It was dark now, the sun finally having set, and looking through the windows, all he could see was the glare of his Pip-Boy against the broken shards of glass, and beyond it a black expanse of nothing. He heard a snort and a couple hoofs pawing at the ground; Demon being the impatient and excited sleipnir he was. But he swore he could still feel the throb and rhythm of machinery, which continued to make Patrick uncomfortable and nervous.

Patrick quickly walked out of the house, and turned off his Pip-Boy light to be able to look around. The house was still dark: not even a long abandoned night light glowed from an upstairs window. The Barn and silos were dark as well, but, in the silent night with only a slight breeze rustling grass, creaking wooden supports of the few structures around, and Demon shuffling around, a faint, whirring mechanical sound could still be heard somewhere.

Patrick couldn't decide if it was his ears playing tricks on him, his tired brain acting up, or if there was actually something around here. He jogged over to the barn, and pushed open the door. It was impossible to see inside, so he switched on his Pip-Boy flashlight again, and was stunned at what he saw.

Three ridiculously long, rusty cars sat side by side at the back of the barn, with two larger, bulkier vehicles in front. While they were all rusty from age and lack of maintenance, The three cars at the back still had some of the black paint, and the windows that were broken from age seemed to be tinted at the back, preventing people from seeing inside them, so may have held VIPs, and, seeing inside one with the front windshield knocked out, there was a small fridge, beer and wine bottles scattered around what would have been plush leather interiors hadn't a century and a half of decay and aging ruined them.

What Patrick could only describe as two metal boxes on wheels at the front had machines guns on the roof in a little turret. Patrick walked in and looked around, noticing that, despite the red rust, a patchy encircled white star could be seen on the doors of the vehicles. He remembered seeing a picture of a similar vehicle with the star, taken in 2076 before the Great War, which described it as being an American military vehicle, nicknamed the "Matty," though the acronym was something like Multipurpose Armed Transport Protected Infantry Vehicle, MATPIV. There were, apparently a couple vehicles like this maintained as museum exhibits in Winnipeg. Patrick wasn't sure if any of them worked, but there were stories of how they could shrug off rocket rounds from Resistance fighters and protect the ten men inside from anything short of a nuclear bomb being dropped on it.

"But why are they here?" Patrick asked out loud to the American military vehicles and luxury cars parked in a barn in the middle of nowhere. Patrick was now even more confused. Something was around here, that was for sure.

Patrick left the barn and kept walking around the farmyard, trying to find out anything else. But after half an hour stumbling over fallen logs and radgopher burrows, Patrick glanced at his Pip-Boy to realize it said it was closer to midnight. He sighed, and walked back to where Demon continued grazing on grass. Maybe it was time to set up camp and call it a night.

Pulling out his sleeping bag and crawling in, setting his hat beside him, he fell asleep almost instantly, not realizing how tired he was.

In what felt like moments later, he could hear Demon whinnying, his multiple hooves crashing through the verandah trying to escape the rope that held him back. Patrick shot up, pulling out the .44 Magnum revolver that was almost always on his hip, and trying to aim it in the direction of whatever the threat was coming. The early morning sun, along with being trapped in his sleeping bag, disorienting and confounding Patrick, and he flailed about trying to figure out what Demon was terrified about.

Finally Patrick managed to escape his trap, and was standing up and holding his gun at… a floating metal ball?

Patrick blinked, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. He finally managed to focus on the object, and just stared at it. It was pretty much a sphere with antennas sticking out the back of it, and what looked like speakers at the front. There was a stump on the bottom, with sparks flying out of it, meaning that maybe something that had been on it was now broken off. Patrick could also see dents and in one place a bullet hole was punched into its side. It clicked continuously, and then a sudden burst of static and a ear piercing scream like when someone walked in front of a microphone from the speaker came out, making Demon rear back and whiney with alarm.

"Calm down Demon!" Patrick exclaimed, stumbling over to his panicked sleipnir, grabbing hold of the reins and pulling him down, stroking his muzzle. "Easy boy, easy."

After a moment, Demon calmed down, and Patrick turned around to see the robot thing was still hovering over the ground, as if looking at Patrick.

Patrick looked back, before he thought of something. "Where did you come from?" he asked the robot. It clicked a few more times, before turning around and hovering off. After a few feet it stopped, turned around, and clicked a few more times, as if saying "follow me!"

Patrick followed it, only grabbing his hat from where he had slept for the night. They had only gone 25 or so feet behind the house when Patrick was surprised a small hill in the countryside he hadn't noticed before, and the robot was heading straight for it. There were a couple old machines, similar to pre-war construction equipment, and large steel crates littered around as if they had been thrown away. The robot suddenly stopped in front of it, turned to Patrick, and clicked a few more times, before screeching another blast of noise from it's speakers, making Patrick cover his ears in ear piercing agony.

After the robot finished trying to deafen Patrick, he looked around. "There's nothing here," he said, glancing up at the robot, before walking to the hill. "Why am I here?"

As if an answer to the question, the hill shuddered to life. A loud siren filled the air, as two massive sliding metal doors opened up, unfolding to reveal a sloped passage downwards that had been expertly hidden away. The doors locked into place with a metallic crash, making Patrick jump in surprise at the heavy sounding noise. The robot simply glided down the ramp, not seeming to care if Patrick followed it anymore. But Patrick did follow it, and continued following it down the slightly angled path. There were lights up on the concrete wall of the tunnel, and they flashed on as the robot got close, as if on motion sensors. Patrick continued to follow close behind, looking around at the surprisingly intact and well-maintained tunnel, and nearly had his eye poked out as the robot stopped.

Patrick managed to dodge the antennas, ducking underneath the robot. He then looked ahead, and gasped at what was in front of him. A massive steel door that looked like a massive gear wheel was in front of him, and it instinctively reminded him of the door on Vault H. There was a symbol in the center where the H had been etched in and at first Patrick thought it was an E, but he realized there was a ring of stars around it, which he was pretty certain Vault H didn't have. The centerline of the E was made up of three smaller lines, which was another thing he knew Vault H didn't have.

"Attention unauthorized personnel!" a speaker blared off to the side, making Patrick jump and whip around. "Identify yourself!"

"Uhh," he paused, "My name is Patrick Morrison," Patrick said.

"Are you the representative, ambassador or leader of whatever society or culture that now exists in the world?" the voice asked back.

"Uhh, maybe?" Patrick said, confused and slightly scared. "I just followed a robot here."

"Please stand clear of the Vault door," the voice on the speaker then stated. Another alarm, a klaxon, this time with red strobe light, made Patrick jump backwards. He could hear grinding metal machines on the other side, followed by a series of metal clanks and crashes, before the heavy steel door was suddenly pulled back with a loud screech of metal on metal, a shower of sparks flying everywhere. The door finally was pulled in, and it was rolled to the side, showing an empty room.

"Please step inside, Ambassador," the voice in the speaker said, and, a bit shocked, Patrick complied.

He walked into the yawning hole left by the metal door, and looked around, trying to see what was around. He saw a control panel with some levers on it, and Patrick walked up to it.

"Don't touch anything!" the intercom shouted, making Patrick jump back again. "Please keep your dirty, irradiated hands off any machines or surfaces in the Vault."

Patrick was about to argue he wasn't irradiated when the sirens and red light came on again, this time the Vault door reversing. An arm attached to the door rolled it back, and after it finished it's job and pulled off, a second arm swung down off the roof and locked into place, pushing the door back into its place.

"Please wait for decontamination personnel to meet you," the intercom ordered.

"But I'm not irradiated. I don't think I've ever stepped in radiation," Patrick replied back.

"Rules are rules. You will not be allowed to talk to the leadership of the Enclave until you have been deemed satisfactorily safe and clean," the speaker replied.

"Wait, what is the Enclave?" Patrick asked. But there was no answer.

Part of the wall, which Patrick had not noticed was a door, suddenly slid open and three people in white plastic suits walked in. One was carrying a Geiger counter, and waving it about over Patrick while the other two, one with a cart and the other with a metal box, followed behind. There were a few clicks and chirps from the machine, which made the person with the Geiger counter make some symbols with his hand. The other two people nodded, and the one with the box set it down, and pointed to a corner of the room with what appeared to be a small shower.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Patrick asked, confused now.

"You and your possessions need to be decontaminated before you can enter," one of the people, a woman from her voice, said behind the plastic suit. "We cannot allow radiation or biological agents into this Vault."

Patrick sighed. "Alright, so what do I have to do?"

"Please hand over your bag. We will not destroy it, but you will not be allowed to take it with you," the woman said. "After, please remove all clothes and use the shower over there," she continued, pointing to a secluded, curtained off area. "After that, we will provide new clothes… wait, is that a Pip-Boy 3000?"

Patrick looked at his wrist. "Yeah, it is."

"Are you a Vault Dweller?" she asked, her voice now excited. "Gosh, can't believe there are civilizations from the Vaults that sprung up!"

"Actually, no," Patrick said. "I got this from the mayor of my town, who was in a Vault, Vault H near Winnipeg."

"Oh," she said, disappointment in her voice. "Well, please remove your Pip-Boy, and we will hand decontaminate it. Then we will provide new clothes and allow you to enter the Vault proper."

Patrick nodded, and walked to the curtain, before stripping out of his clothes, and pulling the plastic around him. He was glad that he was actually able to shower after weeks without, though there wasn't any soap or anything. There was a button on the wall, with a "Decontaminate" label over it. Patrick pushed the button, to be greeted by soapy smelling warm water cascading over him. He ran his fingers through his hair and over his body, watching the grease, grime and dust of traveling wash away. The water changed suddenly to non-soap, and was pure water, which Patrick used to rinse himself off. Then the shower turned off automatically, leaving Patrick standing soaking wet in the shower. The curtain rustled, and Patrick saw a towel being handed to him. He vigorously dried himself off, and swung the towel over the edge of the shower, and was handed some underwear and another blue and yellow jumpsuit, similar to the one he wore when infiltrating Vault H. He looked it over, and noticed that instead of the H on the back, it had the E with stars around it like the Vault door. With a shrug, slipped the offered clothes on

He pushed aside the curtain to see the two other bio-hazard suit clad people going over each item in his bag: food, weapons, the cash he was carrying. They stopped to look at the paper money in surprise.

"There is a civilization up there that uses paper currency?" one of them asked Patrick. "All our models indicated that people would only be using bottle caps or something."

Patrick nodded. "Yeah, that's my country, Assiniboia."

"Ass… wait, an entire country?"

"Yeah," Patrick asked, confused. "Haven't you heard about it?"

"We are unaware of any developments that have occurred in the world," the lady in the plastic outfit said. She pushed a button to the side of the door, opening it up to reveal two soldiers in grey and black uniforms, each holding a big gun that Patrick thought might have been a rifle, but was blocker and glowed green in several spots.

"Come with us, Ambassador," one of the soldiers said, before walking off. Patrick hesitated a moment, but the second waved his gun to follow after the first guy. Patrick followed then.

The Vault here was very similar to Vault H. Patrick had no idea if it was laid out similarly to the one near Winnipeg, but he could tell that some things were the same. The grey metallic and concrete walls were the big one, along with the fancy, pneumatic doors that separated the rooms were virtually the same. However, more people where around, and they all seemed to look at Patrick with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, as if he was an animal in a zoo, and dangerous, unknown and wild one. Winnipeg used to have a zoo, but Assiniboia had more pressing concerns than making sure the animals survived. And, unfortunately, almost none of them did, the need for food and radiation illness killing most of them.

The maze through the Vault took Patrick past a massive underground hanger, but with only five weird machines inside, looking like some insect with rotors, machine guns and hoses attached to it.

"What are those?" Patrick asked to the soldier in front of him.

"Vertibirds," he said gruffly. "Supposed to be machines that you can fly. Never seen one do it though."

Patrick heard it was possible to do that, at least before the War of 2077 and when there was actually some fuel to do it. Winnipeg still had an airport, though the planes that had been parked there have since been taken apart and recycled.

Finally, the first soldier stopped outside a double door, which, unlike the other ones around, looked like a couple old fashioned wooden doors, complete with gold colored door handles.

"We are here," the soldier said, reaching for one of the doors. "The Enclave Council is expecting you."

Patrick nodded, swallowed, and walked into the room. The walls were wood paneled, like the Vault H Overseer's office, but instead of a horseshoe desk, there was another long table, also wood. It seemed like these Enclave guys liked wooden stuff, as Patrick had seen more wooden objects that wasn't a house or used for firewood in the past few minutes than he would have seen in years up north. A large map of the world, with the nations of 2077 printed on it, was on one wall, and flanked by two flagpoles with the old US flag, the 13 red and white stripes and 12 stars on a blue field in the top left corner surrounding a thirteenth, larger white star. Two dozen high backed, plush chairs ringed the table, but only four of them were currently filled with three men and one woman. Two of the men wore black suits with ties, the women wore a bright blue outfit as well, while the last man wore a fancier black and grey uniform like the soldiers that escorted him here.

The four Enclave people stood up as Patrick entered. "Greetings Ambassador," the small, older bald man in the center said. "We are pleased that you have agreed to meet with the Enclave.

"I'm Speaker of the House of Representatives and Acting President of the United States J. W. Graham," the man continued, before pointing to the man beside him. "This is Secretary of Defense Creighton Hawthorne, and Secretary of State Elizabeth Morgan," he continued, pointing to the lady, and then to solider; "and Colonel Gabriel Granger, Chief of Staff of the US Armed Forces." Speaker Graham sat down. "We are the members of the Surface Ambassadorial Committee, the body of the Enclave Congress chosen to speak to the representative of whatever surface society the Enclave meets.

Patrick gave a small laugh. "I wasn't aware you were seeking an Ambassador. I have no diplomatic skills at all."

The man raised an eyebrow. "No? Didn't our Eyebot Scout ask for a representative of whatever human civilization currently exists above ground?"

Patrick shook his head. "It didn't say anything. Something was wrong with it, it only screeched and clicked."

The man looked at Patrick, drumming his fingers on the table. "Hmm, this was unexpected." He waved Patrick to sit down. "No matter, you may still be of use to the Enclave."

"What is the Enclave?" Patrick asked.

The man smiled. "The Enclave is America. The Enclave was… no, is, the leadership of the United States of America: political, economic and scientific. The men and women here are descendants of the best and brightest of what our great Union had, kept safe to preserve not only the human race but also the ideals of America in the event of a great catastrophe, which, as I'm sure you are well aware, has happened.

"And now that we have met human civilization," he continued leaning forward, "we can retake our rightful place in leading the world. Starting with whatever 'nation' you are from."

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #398

What is America?

For over a hundred years, the United States has been the boogeyman in the Dominion of Assiniboia. And, to be fair, the United States had done some despicable things when it was the greatest, most powerful nation on earth. It's the goal of the America Rehabilitation Society to remember the positives of the once great nation.

For example, America was the first democracy in the world! The Founding Fathers, when they wrote the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution ensured that the people were paramount, with elections held for everything from the President of the United States, to representatives, governors, judges, school boards and even police officers, dog catchers and who would coach various sports teams! There was never such a thing as too much democracy, and it made the United States a great country.

But it was also strong and powerful. It was the first country to use nuclear weapons, and was able to drive the British, Mexicans, Canadians, Germans, Russians and Chinese out whenever they tried to invade, and won every single war they ever fought.

But they were a force for good, bringing capitalism and democracy to the whole world. And, while the US may have annexed Canada, Mexico, Cuba, and other countries, then used their natural resources, brutally crushed any opposition, and ended up nuking the world, they only did it to protect the people from being tempted by Communism, and to ensure that the whole world was free to do what it wanted.

So the next time you see something American, remember that they aren't the bad guys. They may have done some bad stuff, but what country hasn't? They are just misunderstood, so that is why we, the America Rehabilitation Society, is trying to show the good things they have done!


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"Wait, what?" Patrick exclaimed. "You want to take over the world?"

Speaker Graham laughed. "No, we have no designs on world domination, just global supremacy. But we are the most capable, competent and important people in the world, so why can't we unify whatever tribal organizations and two bit towns which exist now and rebuild the United States? Just a matter of showing off our weapons and the American Way, and, voila, we will have a superpower almost instantly!"

Patrick was the one that began to laugh now. "Well, I don't know how easy that will be for you."

"Oh?" Secretary of State Morgan said, folding her perfectly manicured hands onto the table. "What makes you say that?"

"I come from the Dominion of Assiniboia, which, if I remember the names right, is most of southern Manitoba, Saskatchewan and North Dakota," Patrick said. "We've been around since 2077, and the Assiniboian army is one of the largest in the Wasteland."

The four Enclave members stared at Patrick, before the Speaker burst into laughter.

"That's a great joke!" the Speaker said, pounding his fist on the table. "What other stories do you have for me?"

Secretary of Defense Creighton Hawthorne turned to his colleague. "Shut up. You wanted to talk to an ambassador, you might as well listen to him as well." He then turned back to Patrick "So there are survivor states up above?"

Patrick nodded. "Do you have a map? One that I can show you?"

The Secretary of Defense got up, and walked to a filing cabinet nearby that Patrick hadn't noticed before, pulling open one of the drawers and pulling out a paper map. "This is North America," he explained, laying it down. "Every state and commonwealth has been marked on it, so it should help." He pulled a pen from his pocket as well, and handed it to Patrick. "Feel free to make marks on it."

Patrick looked at it closely, before grabbing the pen, and he started making some marks on the map. He knew he wasn't a cartographer, but he had seen the map of Assiniboia enough, he should be able to figure this out. He grabbed the pen, and started tracing out the borders as best as he could: starting west in Saskatchewan, he swooped down across the dotted line that was the former international border, then going in a somewhat diagonal until he got to where he thought Fargo was, before then circling around and continuing north, but before he got to the US-Canada border again, he turned east, going straight to what the map said was Lake Superior. Halfway to the lake, he went up again, then made a jog to the west until right before he got to Winnipeg, then up again, and after clipping the bottom of Lake Winnipeg drew a line straight west until he reached the first line he drew in Saskatchewan.

"This is Assiniboia," Patrick said, turning it around for the Secretary of Defense.

He looked at it, his eyes bulging out in surprise. "Wow, that is… wow."

The Speaker snatched the paper from the Secretary of Defense. "What… this is stupid! All our models stated that there should be no organization who could have expanded this much after the bombs fell!"

"Well, Winnipeg wasn't hit by the atom bomb," Patrick said, making all four Enclave people look up.

"What?" Secretary of State Morgan said.

"You heard me," Patrick said. "Somehow, no bombs landed on Winnipeg. We have no idea how, just that it didn't happen."

The Secretary of Defense looked at the map again. "That would explain how this… Assiniboia was able to expand," he said, carefully trying to say the word Patrick said. "But how have you managed to maintain communication with all of this land?"

"Assiniboia rebuilt a bunch of the railways, and they use the rivers a lot as well. This map doesn't have rivers or rail lines, but most towns are on one or the other, sometimes both," Patrick explained.

"What's the population?" The Secretary of Defense asked.

"I don't know the exact number, but I've heard over 400,000 people."

Colonel Gabriel Granger, until now silent, at last spoke up. "Mr. Speaker, I immediately recommend we cancel Operation Ulysses. Just this one big country, this Assy-bone-a, would be able to wipe out the entire Enclave military force."

Speaker Graham whipped around. "Are you saying you cannot handle a bunch of savages?"

"We have guns!" Patrick barked.

"We have plasma weapons! Lasers and Gatling guns! And Vertibirds that can drop bombs from the sky!" The Speaker shouted back.

"Mr. Speaker we have no idea if the Vertibirds will even work, they have not flown for 140 years," Defense spoke up. "For all we know, it will crash the moment we try to take off."

The Speaker glared at the Secretary of Defense. "You never agreed with trying to reunify North America, you Commie!" he roared.

"Who the hell are you calling a Commie?" the Secretary Hawthorne shouted back, grabbing Speaker Graham's tie and pulling him close. "I may be an old man, but I still can beat your ass any day!"

Before the Speaker could respond, Colonel Granger stepped in and pulled the two apart. "Gentlemen! You can't fight in here, this is the war room!" He forced the two to sit down in different chairs, and standing between them. He then turned to Patrick. "Sorry about this. Politics."

Patrick nodded. "I understand. From what I've heard, the government in Winnipeg could be just like this."

Granger smiled. "Well, some things never change then." He then looked at the two other men of the Enclave, wanting to smash their heads together like a parent for two unruly children, but restraining himself due to his office. "Why don't we have a recess, and come back in a bit, okay? And why don't the two of you walk to opposite corners of the Vault and not see each other. I will make sure my soldiers keep you two apart if you do not agree."

The two men grumbled, and curtly nodded, before they left the room. Colonel Granger smiled, and sat down. "Good, now it's just the three of us. Why don't we talk a bit about Ass… Asss…."

"Assiniboia?" Patrick offered

"Yeah, that. So, can you tell me its history?"

Patrick was not a teacher, and he wasn't the best student even when he was in the few years of schooling he got. Although he enjoyed reading, being a farmer left little time to do that in the evening. But now that he has been traveling and exploring, he has learned a lot of thing about his country and it's problems. Colonel Granger and Secretary of State Elizabeth Morgan took handwritten notes, and asked a lot of deep questions: the Secretary mostly on on Assiniboia's economy and political system, and the Colonel on military technology and the Brotherhood of Steel. Later on, more scientists and intellectuals were brought in on the meeting, ranging from anthropologists, nuclear physicists, historians and a dozen other titles that Patrick couldn't pronounce. Almost every Enclave member was horrified, however, when Patrick told the story of how the Dominion of Assiniboia was created, how the American army was defeated and forced to either leave or join the new nation, and the anti-American feeling that Assiniboia still pushed.

"But how could you savages dare to call us the barbarians?" a scientist at the table exclaimed, before storming out when Patrick told of the Battle of Stoney Mountain in 2092, the prison that the RAMP and Army attacked to dispose of the tyrannical American warden placed in charge before the War of 2077. He wasn't the only one to leave in a huff during the interrogation, but through it all, Colonel Granger and Secretary Morgan sat and continued asking questions, though some of the things Patrick said shocked or horrified them

After hours of this, of describing Brahmin and explaining how the trains in Assiniboia worked, he finally found a pause in the conversation to ask some of his own questions.

"So why haven't you come out earlier?" Patrick asked.

Colonel Granger's pen stopped, and he looked up, almost surprised that the subject he and the other Enclave member's had been talking to could ask questions back. But he chuckled, and set the pen down.

"The biggest reason might be that we just didn't know what would be out there," he started. "Oh we guessed, we analyzed, we hypothesized, we used our big supercomputer, MAVIS, to make some calculations and models. But we just didn't 'know.' The little bit of data we did have, such as radiation tests, all came back dangerously high, so no one wanted to go out there and find out.

"If what even half of what you told us is true, we were wrong about everything. Some Enclave members would never dare say that, much less to a surface dweller like you."

"Then why did you say that?"

Colonel Granger opened his hands. "I don't know. Might be that my family, my ancestors, were never actually part of the Enclave, or that I'm just the bigger man to admit that."

"Wait, you aren't part of the Enclave? But then why are you here?"

"It's a long story," Colonel Granger warned, but then immediately went into it. "This Vault was one of the most troubled Vaults in the history of Project Safehouse. At first, it was going to be another vault, but political considerations had that one, Vault 63 if I remember right, being moved further south toward Bismarck. Then the Enclave, at that time just a secret organization within the United States government, contracted Vault-Tec to complete it for themselves, to provide other facilities in the event of a disaster."

"Other facilities?" Patrick asked.

"There were three other places, that I know of, that was supposed to be the basis for the Enclave's eventual re-emergence. There was another Vault like this in the Gulf Commonwealth, a military base near Washington, D.C., and the biggest was a… oil rig, I think you called it, somewhere in the Pacific. They all held a mix of Cabinet officials, congressmen, senators, business executives and scientists to maintain a continuity of government in the case that one or more of the facilities failed. However, we were unable to get into contact with any of these other locations, so we assumed we were the only part of the Enclave to survive, and operated as such.

"But construction was still ongoing in 2077, unlike most other Vaults, due to the need to maintain secrecy and the lack of resources. When the Enclave came to reside in the Vault, there were still at least 500 men and women who were working on construction. They continued their work, but when the bombs began to fall, they demanded that they be allowed to enter the Vault they had helped build. While many of the Enclave leaders were at first hesitant, and some downright hostile to the idea of allowing average Americans to enter the Vault, the Speaker of the House at the time managed to convince them to allow the workers in. For years there was conflict between the pure Enclave and the workers, which lead to arguments, fights and nearly a civil war. The same Speaker of the House managed to have a law passed by the Enclave Congress to make the workers part of the Enclave as well: they could join the military, get higher education in their fields of interest, marry pure members of the Enclave, and would work toward the eventual goal of reunifying America and defeating communism. My great-great-grandfather was one of the construction workers, and by this point everyone in the vault has both DNA from the original Enclave and the workers that it really doesn't matter."

Patrick nodded. "That Speaker sure was a smart man then."

Colonel Granger chortled. "Oh, he was still thinking that they were going to go off to the oil rig and they could leave the workers behind in this Vault, but as the years went on, it soon became clear that we were the only ones left. We were unable to pick up any radio signals with the rest of the Enclave, and eventually even the most optimistic lost hope that the Enclave would be reformed."

"But why are you trying to make contact with the world now?"

Secretary Morgan leaned forward. "Even though we allowed fresh blood into the Enclave right after the war, we only have a few more generations before the genetic pool would be too tainted to remain viable. Inbreeding was always an issue of Project Safehouse, but we never expected to have to experience it ourselves."

"So… this is all just to make sure the Enclave survives?" Patrick asked.

"Oh no," Colonel Granger interrupted. "We've always had the goal to reform America, to rebuild it, even better than before. The threat of Communism is, more or less, gone now, so now all we really have to take care of is the mutants and undesirables, and we can rebuild America."

"But that means that you're going to attack Assiniboia, doesn't it?"

Colonel Granger frowned. "Assiniboia, or at least how you have described it, has thrown not only a wrench, but an entire tool cabinet, into the plans we had. All our models indicated that, even if human society and large-scale governments of multiple towns unified together were to emerge from the wasteland, it would be 120-150 years after the war, not almost immediately after it. Assiniboia is, perhaps the most improbable, and maybe even most impossible, scenario, and one that no one could even imagine.

"Yet, it did. So we will have to live with that."

Patrick was about to say something, but yawned even louder and longer than before, his jaw cracking. He closed it, and sheepishly grinned. "I may be a bit tired. Haven't exactly had a good sleep for a few weeks."

Secretary Morgan stood up. "From the stories you have told, yes, I have no doubt. I will send orders to have a room made up for you to rest a while."

Patrick nodded thanks, and turned back to Colonel Granger as the Secretary walked out of the room. "So what will the Enclave do?"

"I will need to talk that over with the Speaker and the rest of the Cabinet, and then the Congress. At this moment, I'm about ready to say that we either head further south and see what there is, or maybe just make an expedition to either coast and try to make physical contact with the rest of the Enclave."

"Going to the south will take you into Brotherhood of Steel territory," Patrick said. "I know the best soldiers of the Brotherhood have power armor like yours, as well as big guns and the knowledge to use them."

Colonel Granger shrugged. "I'm sure we could fight our way through. But that is not your concern, that is ours." He closed up his book and stood up. "Patrick Morrison, it has been a privilege to talk to you."

As the colonel began to leave, Patrick stood up. "Wait, Colonel," Patrick said, making the Enclave soldier stop and look over his shoulder.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What if… what if you go to Winnipeg and meet with the government of Assiniboia?" Patrick offered.

Colonel Granger turned to face Patrick directly. "If what you said about Assiniboia is true, and how they hate us, then there would be no point to that. Hell, from all the stories you've told, the Enclave would never dare want to go there.

Patrick stood up. "But wouldn't this be a point to prove how good America is, even just a former slice of it? Offer technology that Assiniboia could never have created themselves, Old World know-how that is long gone, a way of life that can't even be imagined!"

The colonel chewed on his lip. "I don't know. How well do you think the Enclave and Assiniboia can get along? We, the Enclave, America, is the entity that your country fought against to create itself. How can your nation now accept that back?"

Patrick thought back, remembering the old International Peace Garden and how pre-War of 2077 American soldiers had vandalized it, the radio play Zach loved to hear so much of a brave Mountie fighting the American occupation, the resentful young men who wanted to see North Dakota free of Assiniboia due to the belief that Assiniboia discriminated against former Americans, the stories of how Assiniboia made the pound the currency just to never use the dollar again. That marker near Atwood.

But then he also thought of the Double A Express, the train staffed by Americans to prove they can help Assiniboia. Maybe there was hope?

Colonel Granger continued to stare at Patrick, but it wasn't one of hatred or contempt, but genuine interest, maybe even concern. Patrick smiled.

"I can't guarantee it will be easy," he finally said. "The roots of anger and patriotism are deep in both Assiniboia and, from what I can guess, the Enclave. But even former enemies can work together for a common goal, and I know the one that both the Enclave and Assiniboia are in favor of."

"What's that?" Colonel Granger asked for a moment.

"Rebuilding the world torn apart by the actions of our ancestors," Patrick said. "We both may have different ideas of what we want this new world to look like, but we all want to rebuild it, no?"

Colonel Granger stood there for a moment, thinking it over. "I will have to talk to the Congress about this." There was a metallic knock at the door, and a humming noise.

"That will be the Mister Handy saying your room is ready," Colonel Granger said. "You should go lie down for a bit. We can talk later."

The colonel left, sidestepping the robot in the hallway, and hurrying off to wherever he needed to go.

Patrick turned back to look at the big world map flanked by the old American flags on the wall. He noticed that the blue used to mark out the US stood out a bit more, but he also noticed how the blue was traced around what used to be Canada, and the country to the south… Mex-i-co? The American Empire, now gone.

On the other side of the map, a bright red encircled a huge area of the northern part of Asia and Europe, with Union of Soviet Socialist Republics written in a straight line and easily fitting the entire mass of what was clearly the largest country in the world whenever the map was made. Below it, in a darker shade of red that reminded Patrick of dried blood, was the People's Republic of China. Patrick had read a few things about both countries, but he always thought it was a myth, a legend; a story that people told but may not have actually believed in.

Then again, as he had just found out, there are a lot of myths and legends that are true. Jimmy at Brahmin Springs was right, with would be enough to give Bill Kovak a pain in the head.

Patrick had, what he considered, the best sleep in as long as he could remember. Even his bed back in Melita had never been as soft and as comfortable as what he was now lying on. It felt like a cloud, a soft cloud that could take him anywhere.

When he was roused by a knock at the metal sliding door that blocked off his room from the rest of the Vault, he felt more refreshed than he had in weeks, if not months. He glanced at the Pip-Boy he had taken off and set on the night stand, and it said that it was 8 AM, the next morning. He pushed himself out of his bed, as much as he hated to leave it, and walked over to the wall, and punched the button on the side he was told would open it.

When it opened, Colonel Granger was standing there, with a tray of food which he set on the table. "Good morning Patrick. You've been asked to come to meet the Enclave Congress."

Patrick blinked, thinking that maybe he was in a dream. "Wait, what?"

"The Enclave Congress is debating what to do. I told them that you suggested we should go meet with Assiniboia, and now they want to hear from you before they agree to anything."

"But I'm not an ambassador, much less a politician," Patrick protested.

"They know that. We found out the robot that you found that lead you back here was shot several times, damaging the internal workings. But, you are here now, and you gave me the idea, and now they want you to talk about it."

Patrick gulped in nervousness, but instead of jumping back into bed and hiding under the covers like he used to do when he was young, he reached for his Pip-Boy, and slipping it on his wrist, he got up and prepared to follow the Colonel.

"No, you should eat first. Could be a long meeting." He waved Patrick to the table. "Just don't take too long, a lot of the people there are a bit impatient."

Patrick ate the breakfast made for him, with eggs and something Colonel Granger called "bacon," which Patrick had never had before. It was good, but really greasy and not something Patrick would want to have every day.

After eating, the two men retraced their steps back to the meeting room from the previous day, back to the same wooden double door with the brass handles that seemed so out of place.

This time when Patrick was lead in, the Speaker, Secretary of Defense and State and a dozen other men and women were around the table, all with notepads and folders in front of them, talking to each other. They were all in a variety of suits or dresses, most appearing to be from styles in the pre-War world, but none of them wore a Vault suit like Patrick was. He recognized the faces of a few of them yesterday when he was talking about Assiniboia, but he couldn't remember the names, or if they were historians or anthropologists or what. Patrick did remember one sprightly old man with white hair he recognized was called a congressman, but he didn't know if everyone here was or not.

When Patrick entered, the mumbled conversations were hushed, and they all silently watched Patrick as he was lead to a spot at the table between Speaker Graham and Secretary Hawthorne, both of whom gave one of those polite, but not totally sincere smiles that every politician seemed to be an expert at.

"Good morning, Mr. Morrison," Speaker Graham said. "This is the Enclave Congress, the small portion of Congress that had been saved from nuclear destruction, and the legislative branch of our government."

"So why did you want to talk to me?" Patrick asked.

"We want to make as informed a decision as we can as to our plans," the Speaker said. "Most of us are still unsure if what you say is the truth, but looking through your rucksack and reading your Pip-Boy, the evidence seems to be confirming what you have said."

"How were you able to read my Pip-Boy?" Patrick asked, surprised.

The Secretary of Defense sitting on the other side of Patrick answered. "The United States is…was one of the leaders of electronic surveillance in the world, and we still have most of that technology. While we are surprised at the amount of information your Pip-Boy possessed that seemed to have been created since the bombs fell, the information was more than helpful in better understanding the outside world."

Patrick felt a bit uncomfortable that all the data he had was read without his knowledge, but he couldn't exactly tell these people to stop it, could he? Vaults weren't really designed with privacy in mind, were they?

"Anyway," the Speaker continued, annoyed that the Secretary had seemingly upstaged him, "We recognize that the Dominion of Assiniboia is clearly a strong nation, and that we cannot take it on militarily. However, the Congress is divided on your proposal about meeting with your government, and possibly making an alliance with Assiniboia."

Around the table, several people nodded.

"Why?" Patrick said.

One of the congressmen spoke up. "It's more or less due to the anti-America information that you have told us. Since we represent the best of America, we are unsure if we would be welcome, or if Assiniboia would massacre us all as soon as we arrived."

Patrick thought about that. "I'm not sure how much of that is still around. Sure, we have radio programs, and we are taught the history of how the US annexed Canada before the nuclear war, but for the longest time I thought it was both ancient history, if not myths and legends."

The congressman nervously drummed his fingers on his leather folder, making a simple rat-a-tat sound like drums or an assault rifle, making Patrick try to refrain himself from ducking. "But how can you be sure?"

Patrick thought about this, and then snapped his fingers. "Why don't I try to contact Winnipeg, and see if I can talk to them about it?"

The members of the Congress began to talk amongst themselves, but Speaker Graham turned to Patrick. "I don't know how you can do that. Our long-range radio has stopped working years ago, and we have been unable to fix it."

"I just need to go to a small town nearby. They should have a radio system so I can talk to Winnipeg," Patrick said.

The Speaker looked around, as if trying to find another reason to try to stop. Before he could say anything, Secretary of Defense Hawthorne spoke up. "Good idea! This would be a good time to possibly have a full-scale reconnaissance mission of the area as well, with someone that can help guide us," he said, gesturing to Patrick. "Colonel Granger!" he barked.

Colonel Granger, until that point standing and leaning against a nearby wall, suddenly jerked up at his name being called, and instinctively saluted. "Yes sir?"

"How long until you can get a squad of men to be ready to go above ground?"

"Hold on a moment," the Speaker barked, standing up. "I'm the acting President, I'm technically the Commander in Chief of the Enclave, and I give the orders to the military here."

"Then start acting like a leader instead of trying to procrastinate the delay everything," the Secretary challenged. "Besides, I'm the man actually in charge of the Military here, and I can exercise that authority without your orders." He turned back to Colonel Granger. "So?"

The colonel thought for a moment as the Speaker sat down, blinking and confused as the sudden onslaught from the Secretary became apparent. "I can call upon volunteers right now, and have them equipped and ready in a few hours."

"Excellent! Go do that." He turned back to Patrick. "I hope you don't mind having a few men with you, do you?"

Patrick blinked at the sudden onslaught of questions and orders, before slowly shaking his head.

"Good!" Hawthorne exclaimed, standing up, turning back to Colonel Granger. "Then prepare a squad of men and get ready. Any materials you think you need and get your best men ready to move out." He then turned to the Secretary of State. "Elizabeth, depending on how well this goes, would you be able to get a committee together to meet with Assiniboia?"

"That's not a problem," she said, also surprised at how the Secretary of Defense had taken over the meeting, but doing her best to not appear that way. "I know a few people who work under me who would want to go on the surface."

"Brilliant," the Secretary of Defense said. "Is there any objections?"

The congress members looked at each other, just as surprised at how quickly the Creighton Hawthorne took over the meeting. Eventually they all shook their heads.

"Fantastic. We should get started then," he said, giving a smile that was more genuine than before.

Patrick and the rest of the Congress stood up and began filing out of the room, Colonel Granger leading as he went to begin his instructions. The Speaker slunk out as quickly as he could, bumping into Secretary Hawthorne, but Patrick couldn't tell if it was on purpose or an accident.

Before Patrick could leave, he felt a hand grab hold of his shoulder. "One second, Patrick," Secretary Hawthorne said. "Can I have a word with you?"

Patrick turned around, facing the still smiling Secretary. He didn't speak until the last person left the room, and the door closed. He then sat back in his chair, and motioned Patrick to the one next to him. "Man, it sure felt good to do that again."

"Hmm?" Patrick said.

"Being Secretary of Defense, until you came around, was one of those positions that no one in the right mind would want. The Enclave's military power is, well, powerful, but also very limited, and until this moment restricted to mostly managing disputes between soldiers and the rest of the Enclave and the soldiers." He leaned back in his chair, reaching his hands behind his head. "But now… Now that we know the outside world isn't a completely radioactive hellhole, my position can be useful again." He chuckled, before his smile at last faded away. "However, I'm not sure if I can trust the Speaker anymore."

"Why?" Patrick asked. "Is it because you usurped his power?"

Secretary Hawthorne shook his head. "No, we've always had those issues. However, he was totally opposed to meeting Assiniboia right now. His goals have been, and always been, to rebuild the United States. And that also means, unfortunately, Assiniboia as well."

"But why? He even said that the Enclave can't confront Assiniboia," Patrick asked.

"What he meant was that the Enclave can't confront Assiniboia yet. But if he could go and try to rebuild an American nation, then Assiniboia would be in trouble."

"So why do you want to meet Assiniboia then?" Patrick asked.

"Because, from what I've heard, Assiniboia has managed to survive and adapt to the post-Armageddon world better than we could have. Working with Assiniboia would be better for the Enclave and the world than establishing a new nation that will, eventually, come into conflict with your country," Hawthorne said. "That would be devastating to the Enclave and Assiniboia."

"So you want to save the world?" Patrick asked

"I want to save the Enclave," Secretary Hawthorne replied. "If I can save the world while doing it, then even better. And I think working with Assiniboia is the best way for us to at least establish a base, and make friends with the survivor states of the surface to help us in rebuilding North America, the land that America used to control.

"We can't rebuild the United States as it used to be. But we can provide the technology and knowledge to rebuild a new, even better world."

He turned to Patrick. "You can't deny that you, Assiniboia, want that as well, no?"

Patrick didn't answer, not sure what the right answer would be.

Pipboy Infotracker Note #98

Presidential Executive Order 53718: Rebuilding the United States

By the authority vested in me as Acting President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, it is hereby ordered as follows:

Section 1: Because of the recent nuclear war between the People's Republic of China, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and other nations having caused incalculable damage to the United States of America, and the lack of communication with other facilities having been determined as ensuring the Continuity of Government with United States Government Site V, the following actions are hereby ordered:

(a): Since the Speaker of the House of Representatives is, as according to law passed by Congress, the most senior member of the Presidential Line of Succession known to be alive in the absence of communications with other locations, he will be acknowledged as Acting President of the United States;

(b): Since a quorum of the Congress the United States of America is present, they shall be declared the current Congress of the United States;

(c): Since many positions of the United States government is currently unoccupied, members of the Enclave with specialized knowledge or have formerly held certain positions will now be appointed to those same positions;

(d): All laws of the United States previously passed will still hold force of law until the reconstituted Congress of the United States determines, by other laws or Presidential Actions, to be irrelevant and therefore repealed or superseded;

(e): The Acting President of the United States will ask the reconstituted Congress to suspend the Constitution of the United States for five years to allow a simple, quick and responsive action to any dangers that may befall the United States Government Site V.

Section 2: General Provisions.

(a) Nothing in this order shall be construed to impair or otherwise affect:

(i) the authority granted by law to an executive department or agency, or the head thereof; or

(ii) the functions of the Director relating to budgetary, administrative, or legislative proposals.

(b) This order shall be implemented consistent with applicable law and subject to the availability of appropriations.

(c) This order is not intended to, and does not, create any right or benefit, substantive or procedural, enforceable at law or in equity by any party against the United States, its departments, agencies, or entities, its officers, employees, or agents, or any other person.

ACTING PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

AMBROSE J. MCDONALD

UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT SITE V.

October 24, 2087


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Colonel Granger found three volunteers willing to go up on the surface, and he decided to join them as well. Patrick went to get his backpack, along with his old clothes, which weren't destroyed (much to Patrick's relief; he really liked his Brahmin leather hat), as well as all his weapons. He was glad to slip his .44 Magnum into his holster. It was a comfortable weight, and security in Assiniboia. The old saying "an armed society is a polite society" may not always be true (Patrick having seen his share of gunfights in the streets of Melita when arguments went out of control) but it was the best way to keep one safe when you were otherwise alone.

When Patrick finally made it up to the Vault entrance, he gasped in surprise.

"You guys have power armor?" Patrick asked, eyes wide in shock and fairly intimidated at seven and eight foot tall metal clad soldiers standing at the entrance. But it also didn't look anything like the power armor that Patrick had seen drawings or pictures of before. Other Power Armor seemed more angular and cobbled together, rusty and unrefined. This power armor was impressive, though intimidating and downright scary at times: graceful curves instead of rough angles, and a perfect paint job, though the helmet they were wearing, a mixture of what a massive insect man would look like if he were turned into a robot was, to put it frankly, unnerving and maybe just a bit terrifying. If that's what they were designing for, then good job on the engineers.

One of them took off their helmet, revealing Colonel Granger. "Yeah, a special model that scientists here have been working on for decades. We call it the X-01 model, an improvement over the old T-51b: is lighter, able to move faster, increase the strength of the wearer, and provide improved protection from the user from weapons and radiation, as well as providing a secure storage space. It's perhaps the best piece of military technology ever designed," Colonel Granger was nearly gushing over the metal clad suit of armor he was wearing, before looked up at Patrick. "Something wrong?"

"Well, the Brotherhood of Steel has working power armor as well, and if we are going to be walking into Assiniboia territory, it might raise questions," Patrick explained.

"Oh," Colonel Granger said, that one word encapsulating everything.

"Well… do you have a flag or something? Something to better identify you by?"

"I'm sure we have an American flag somewhere. Rogers!" he barked at one of the other power-armored men, who stiffened and saluted. "Go to the quartermaster, see if you can commander a flag. On the double!"

The soldier saluted again, and ran off, his suit clanking as he did so. A few moment he returned with a flag like the one in the ones in the meeting room, and a short pole that they could attach the flag to. Until it was needed, it was placed into one of the storage packs of the soldiers.

"Alright, I think we got everything now," Granger said, putting his helmet back on. He turned to a computer monitor with the name MAVIS, the name of the computer system that operated the vault, painted on it. "MAVIS, open the main door."

"One moment. Please stand by," a female voice replied. "Opening main door. Stand clear!"

An arm reached down and fastened on the center of the door. With a loud whirring and gridning of machines and gears, the arm began to roll the big steel door off to side, opening up to the outside world again. When the clash of metal and gears finally stopped, everyone looked at each other for a long moment before Patrick, with a sigh, was the first to step forward and through the large, 12 foot hole in the ground. Maybe it was nervousness, politeness or fear, but the four big power armored me let him go first and walk through the big door.

After the five left the Vault, the door began to slid close, with a siren wailing to make sure no one got in the way of the massive steel door.

"Well, off we go into the Great Unknown," one of the soldiers said, his voice both muffled and amplified by his helmet that he was wearing. As if the helmet was disconcerting enough, now the man's voice was awkward.

The metal sliding door that hid the Vault from the outside world now opened again. The sunlight pouring through the opening was enough to dazzle Patrick after a couple days underground. But behind him, there were gasps and one cry of pain and agony.

"Oww!" cried one man, the only one of the soldiers not wearing his helmet cried out. "It hurts!"

"You dumbass!" Colonel Granger, who was wearing his helmet, barked out. "The helmets would help your eyes adjust to the sun. And you just had to take it off!"

The power-armored solider couldn't reply, instead falling to the ground in agony. Colonel Granger sighed, and waved to one of the other soldiers. "Get him back into the Vault, then come back, okay. We will not be leaving the area until you return."

"Yes sir!" he said, saluting.

"As for the rest of you, keep your helmets on as much as possible. We are not, and cannot get used to the sunlight for a long time," Colonel Granger said. He turned to Patrick, who was also adjusting his eyes to the sun. "After spending our entire lives underground, coming out like this is, perhaps, the worst thing we could have done."

"I totally understand. Hope you can overcome that soon."

The three remaining men continued up the ramp and finally onto the ground. The last enlisted soldier made a few squeaks, looking around before standing still.

"What's wrong now Rogers?" Colonel Granger said when he realized he was the only Enclave soldier walking forward.

He didn't say anything, but started walking backward. "It… It's so big," he stammered, before falling to the ground, looking down

Colonel Granger groaned. "Great, agoraphobia now. The eggheads told me this might happen." He turned around and marched down the stairs. "Rogers, get up."

The Enclave soldier named Rogers just hugged the ground as much as he could, whimpering like a little puppy. Patrick sighed.

"Fine, go back to the Vault as well. When I get back, you will be reassigned."

Rogers meekly nodded, shuffling backwards, before turning around and nearly sprinting back to the Vault door, banging on it to let him back in.

Colonel Granger sighed, the helmet making it sound like it was a train losing steam and powering down. He then began looking around the landscape, the dust and little scraggly grass that struggled to grow in the heat and cold of the northern climates. "Sure is big though."

Patrick silently nodded, before he started walking back to the farmstead. "I need to grab my sleipnir."

"Your what?" Granger asked, turning around.

"It's my… uhhh… Oh, what do you call them," Patrick said, forgetting the pre-war, un-mutated name of Assiniboia's most well known creature. "Uhh… horse?"

"You guys still have horses? I thought they all would have died off from the radiation."

"Kind of. They had been mutated from what you guys would have known horses to be, but they are very important since we don't have cars or anything that works," Patrick replied.

"Hmm… well I want to see this."

Patrick and the Colonel tramped off to the farmstead that Patrick was certain was farther away from the Vault than he remembered. They walked around the corner of the house to see Demon contently grazing on the weed like plants that had grown around the edge of the verandah he had been tied to. When he heard two footsteps, one of them metallic, Demon pulled it's head up, and snorted, nickering nervously.

"Hey there, don't worry, it's not a robot," Patrick said. "He seems to not like robots very much.

"Well it's a good thing I'm not a robot then," Colonel Granger said, but the muffled, inhuman voice from the metal creature made Demon whiney and try to back away, but he was held from running off by the surprisingly strong rope Patrick had tied him with.

Patrick walked up, being careful to avoid the four front hooves now flying in terror in front of Demon. "Easy boy!" he shouted, grabbing the reins that hung down. "Colonel, could you either back away or take off your helmet or something?"

Granger hastily backed up behind the house, and after a few moments Demon was calmer. Patrick said some reassuring words, stroking the side of his mount. "Easy there, easy."

A moment later Colonel Granger clamped back, but this time without his helmet. However, he was wearing a large pair of sunglasses, most likely to make sure his eyes wouldn't be damaged from the harsh sun. "Is it okay now?"

Demon shuffled a bit, but with Patrick there, he was more content. "I think he's going to be okay."

Colonel Granger strolled up, looking around Demon. "Interesting, eight legs. We had no idea what kind of mutations would happen," he said. "What other creatures are there?"

Patrick chuckled. "Way too many. Brahmin… cows with two heads, I think; giant ants and scorpions that sometimes come here from the south. There are other creatures as well, but I have no idea what they would have been before the bombs fell."

Colonel Granger had slowly come up to the snorting, nervous Demon, but when he reached a hand forward to pet the sleipnir, Demon didn't pull back as he would have, now that he saw something with the machine man person that was human. Colonel Granger rubbed over the thick, yet soft, fur of the eight-legged creature, silently admiring the sleipnir.

A few moments later, after Patrick had taken care of Demon and got him ready to travel, the last power armored soldier that wasn't injured or scared of the outside world came around the house, looking for Patrick and the colonel. When he came up, he only saluted, and waited for Colonel Granger to notice him.

"Ah, good, you're here Deadeye. At least one of you still want to come." he turned to Patrick. "Well, I guess we can go now. Lead the way."

The journey back to Brahmin Springs was uneventful. Or, compared to other things Patrick had done in the past few weeks, as uneventful as a trip as any. For the first time in a while he saw some radgophers, and he took out his revolver to take some shots at it. However, the range was a bit off, and he missed. But even as the radgopher was scampering off, Deadeye pulled a fancy looking energy rifle off of his back, aimed and fired, barely pausing in-between any step. The radgopher froze in mid stride and fell over, dead.

"Wow, that was a great shot," Patrick said, whistling as he turned Demon to go look at the radgopher.

Deadeye didn't say anything, but Colonel Granger chuckled. "Deadeye here is the best sniper we have in the Enclave. We ended up setting a shooting range in the hanger, and he was expertly picking off targets on the other side of the room, even when we made them randomly jump around or zig-zag." He sounded so proud, as a father would of an especially smart, strong or successful son.

Patrick claimed the tail from the radgopher, and added it to his backpack, sighing. "I almost thought I would have gotten more of these when I set out."

"Why did you leave your home?" Colonel Granger asked as Patrick climbed back up on his mount and they walked off to the east again.

"My brother was taken by some raiders, along with a bunch of other kids from the towns where I grew up," Patrick explained. "Also killed my grandfather and injured my grandma. I've been trying to find him, but all it's done is lead me into a helping the RAMP and other people, hoping they may have some information."

Colonel Granger nodded. "I'm sorry to hear," he said, and Patrick noticed that the Colonel seemed genuinely sorry, not just saying it because it was polite. "I sure do hope you find him and the others."

Patrick ground his teeth together as they continued walking east. Was it too late? For all he knew, Zach was now a slave to some group of raiders, or all alone in the middle of the vast wasteland, which meant that it would take a miracle to find him. Patrick didn't want to think of the other possibility.

It was late when the trio finally arrived at Brahmin Springs. Patrick's Pip-Boy said it was just a bit past 2 AM, though his yawning and unfocused mind told him it felt much later than that. They did make pretty good time, but at this point Patrick was much more content to travel by train.

Colonel Granger looked around at the huts, shacks and dilapidated old-world buildings with a mixture of contempt and disbelief. "So is the entire world like this now?"

"Well, kind of," Patrick replied as he pulled Demon to a stop in front of the motel he had been staying at. "Winnipeg, I promise, is a lot better." The polite laugh from the Colonel meant that he didn't quite believe Patrick.

With Demon tied up, Patrick entered the motel, to find the young boy that had given him some problems before sitting at the desk. But when two power armored soldiers marched in right behind Patrick, Carroll Kovak's face turned pale as a ghost. "You… you have Brotherhood guys with now," he whimpered, hiding behind the desk. "Are you just trying to oppress us even more?"

Patrick turned to the Colonel. "Told you this would happen." Patrick sighed and looked at Carroll. "Look, I'm not here for trouble. These are not BoS guys. Just need a couple rooms for the night, please."

A door in the back slammed open, and Bill Kovak, in a threadbare bathrobe holding a shotgun stumbled out. "What the hell is… Patrick?"

"Yes, it's me. Surprise!" the Assiniboian said, waving his hands in front of him like a stage magician.

Bill looked over the metal clad men behind him, and blinked. "Who are they?"

"I'm Colonel Gabriel Granger of the Enclave Armed Forces," he said, giving a salute. "We are the remnants of the former government of the United States."

Carroll perked up. "The United States? It still exists?"

"Not really," Granger said. "We are just the descendants of former government, military and economic leaders of the US."

Before Granger could go on, Patrick cleared his throat, then yawned. "We've been traveling all day. Could we please get a room and get some sleep?"

Bill just sighed. "Patrick, ever since you've come here you've brought nothing but strange and weird things to my hotel."

"Well, that's the Wasteland for you," Patrick said, yawning. "But can I explain it in the morning?"

It took over an hour to tell Bill this story over eggs and steak, and he sat there in shock at everything that had happened. Colonel Granger and Deadeye were still asleep, leaving Patrick and Bill Kovak alone this early in the morning.

"So Old Man Jimmy was right?"

"Yeah, but it was just one damaged robot," Patrick explained. "Still, found an entire vault of people!"

Bill just chuckled. "And to think that there was a US government here almost the entire time." He shook his head. "I think you need a drink."

"No, it's too early in the morning," Patrick said, finishing his eggs.

"So what now?" Bill asked.

"They want to get into contact with Assiniboia, so I need to get on the radio and talk with Winnipeg. Do you have something I can use?"

"Yeah, I have one of those radiogram machines in my office. Let's call them."

The Vanderbrok RadioTeleprinter machine, like the one that Bill Kovak had, was one of the most advanced technologies in Assiniboia. The brass and wood case of the device made it look like it was from the pre-war era. But the important features, including a computer screen, keyboard, and the switches and toggles on the front casing, all seemed to blend in, without looking like it had been cobbled together by a scavenger for a purely functional machine. This looked like it worked and would look nice. Too bad they were expensive as hell.

"I only got this because every town is required to have one," Bill said when Patrick mentioned that. "So they just gave me a machine, since there isn't a train station that they normally would use." Bill sat at the keyboard. "So where do you want it to go?"

"RAMP HQ," Patrick said. "Tell them that the Auxiliary requires assistance at Brahmin Springs, and that we have met a group that wishes to speak with Assiniboia."

"Not going to mention that they are part of the former US?" Bill asked.

"One step at a time," Patrick said.

Bill typed away at the keyboard, then hit the "Send" button when Patrick was satisified with the message.

"Now, sending the message from one point and receiving it on the other end isn't an issue," Bill said. "It all happens in a blink of an eye. Getting it to the right person, on the other hand, that can take time."

Before Bill even finished saying that, there was a bell chime from inside the machine, followed by a message appearing on the computer screen.

"Huh, they must have been expecting you," Bill said, tapping a few keys on the keyboard to open the message.

TO: PATRICK MORRISON, AUXILIARY

MESSAGE: YOU ARE ORDERED TO REPORT TO WINNIPEG ASAP. ALL OTHER BUSINESS IS TO BE PUT ON HOLD UNTIL THEN. REPORT TO COMMISSIONER RAYMOND WHEN YOU ARRIVE. RAMP RIVER BOAT IS BEING SENT DOWN NOW.

"That… doesn't sound good," Bill said, looking up to Patrick, who blinked in surprise.

Patrick looked back to Bill. "I think I can use that drink now."

Patrick might not have gotten seasick, but the Enclave soldiers were nervous at the small craft that came down the Red River to dock at Brahmin Springs around 3 PM that afternoon. About thirty feet long and made out of re-refined steel, it used a specially designed fusion motor, basically a smaller version that was used on the fancy UAR trains, and similar to the kind used on the cars that were built right before the War of 2077. On the side, RAMP was painted in bright red letters with a smaller Ste. Agathe giving the name of the ship (most were named after pre-War towns that were on one of the three main rivers of Assiniboia, the Red, the Assiniboine, and the Souris). The three officers on board where RAMP members, but wearing a special blue uniform that made them stand out as part of the Naval branch of the RAMP. There were two machine guns, one on the front and one on the back, which would possibly be maintained by the other two RAMP members.

The captain, who was actually a Captain of the RAMP, looked over the edge of the boat and waved to Patrick. "Ahoy there," he shouted, as he jumped off the boat and onto the pier, walking to Patrick, and offering his hand. "I'm Captain John Edwards. You must be the Auxiliary the radio has been talking about."

"Yeah, that's me," Patrick said, accepting the handshake.

The Captain then looked at the two Enclave men flanking Patrick. "And who are they?"

"I'm Colonel Gabriel Granger, and this is 'Deadeye.' We are part of the Enclave, the remnant of the US Government."

The captain and the two other sailors all looked at each other, then too the power armored men, then to Patrick. "I wasn't told anything about this," Captain Edwards said.

"Mostly because I wasn't able to tell Winnipeg. They just ordered me to go up to Winnipeg, and I wasn't able to tell them why I needed help," Patrick said.

Captain Edwards looked up over the power-armored men, one with sunglasses and the other with the disconcerting helmet. The captain forced a smile, despite his apparent discomfort. "Nice to meet you gentlemen."

Colonel Granger either didn't notice or did his best not to care. "Likewise Captain." Deadeye only nodded.

"Is it alright if they come with me anyway?" Patrick said. "They would like to meet up with the government."

The Captain looked at his boat, then back at the power armored men. "We weren't exactly expecting power armored men to ride along on the boat, but we should be able to take them anyway. Alright, well if you will all get on board, we can get going," he said, ushering them all onto the Ste. Agathe. "We have some sandwiches for you if you are hungry, but hopefully we will get to Winnipeg in time for dinner. And don't worry about your sleipnir, we have food and water for it as well."

Once everyone and everything was loaded, the RAMP boat turned easily backed away from the dock and turned around, before speeding it's way north, the bow rising out of the water as it picked up speed.

Colonel Granger and Deadeye sat, or more appropriately huddled, in the middle of the boat, and they were clearly not handling it as well as everyone else. Deadeye even ended up taking his helmet off for the first time since he left the Vault just to throw up over the side of the boat. Demon was a bit unsteady on the boat, but with the help of food and some blinders that were placed on his head, he didn't panic too much. Maybe three weeks of train riding made him more comfortable? Patrick sure hoped so.

Patrick sat at the rear of the boat where the captain steered the vessel through the bumpy Red River. He deftly steered past the ruins of a bridge that had once crossed the river, connecting Minnesota and North Dakota. In some spots you could see where towns and farms once perched along the river, though most of them were abandoned now, hollow ruins scavenged over years before and forgotten.

"Captain, what's been going on back home?" Patrick asked.

"More reservists have been called up for armed duty," Captain Edwards replied, steering around a log in the river. "There are rumors that Assiniboia had sent a member of the Foreign Ministry for discussions at Fargo for a resolution to the crisis, but the BoS seemed to have refused to negotiate. More likely that no one could agree to anything."

Patrick sighed. "I liked it when I was able to farm without a worry in the world besides the weather and how the crops were coming."

Captain Edwards chuckled. "I was the exact opposite. My family had a farm around New Winnipeg, but I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could, and not have to look at the south end of a northbound brahmin." He looked over to Patrick and smiled. "Been in the RAMP for over 30 years now, and 20 of them on boats like this."

"That's good for you," Patrick said. "I just wish that no raiders had taken my brother through, and I could just be listening to the radio of everything happening."

Captain Edwards smoothly turned the wheel, making the Ste. Agathe deftly sail through the bends of the river. "That kind of small thinking is most likely what lead Assiniboia into the mess it's in now."

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"The Brotherhood, as powerful as they are, only care about one thing: how many people Assiniboia has in the army. They may consider economics and social issues, but only as a side show, something to distract. They don't see the true power of Assiniboia, which is that we have a large population, a steady supply of food, and industry to make new products. All the men with guns in the army in the world can't match a nation that's balanced and unified.

"That said, Assiniboia isn't exactly looking at the big picture either. The Prime Minister, the RAMP, the entire governmnet cares about only one place: Winnipeg. When issues pop up in different districts is a 'local' problem to Winnipeg, and it's allowed to fester due to the lack or resources districts would have. Hell, Brandon was once tolerable as an independent city-state, but that was long before the Syndicate took it over and made it one of the worst hives of scum and villainy you would ever see."

Patrick grunted, and looked over the river, at the speeding banks that flew by. He didn't care about all that. But should he?

"But people that live, like you did, on farms and small towns, who only care about the next harvest, the next radstorm, close their minds off from the rest of the world. It's not the threats that you know that are the big problem. It's the possible threats that you don't pay attention to that can suddenly pop up and cause chaos. Did you ever expect Raiders to attack Melita?"

"Well, no," Patrick said.

"No one did. That's why they got away with it."

"But what does that mean? Even if we were prepared for it, if we were expecting it, they may have still did what they did."

"All I can say about it is that a problem in one place will lead to issues elsewhere. Cause and effect, some people call it. Hell, if what I've heard about you is true, having your brother kidnapped could be one of the best things to ever happen to you and Assiniboia."

Patrick spun around. "What? What?" he barked, incredulous. "You think stealing a young boy, killing our grandfather and injuring our grandmother was good?"

Captain Edwards didn't even blink as Patrick started screaming. "I'm not saying that losing your family is a good thing. No, that's never the case. What I'm saying is the effect of you searching for your brother is the good thing."

Patrick growled. "And why would you think that? Just because I solved some problems in some towns and killed some bandits, it suddenly makes up for losing my brother and grandfather? Anyone could have done those things!"

"But you did," Captain Edwards stated. "Anyone could have, but no one had until you came along and did those things. Because your family was torn apart you helped others. And, as a big believer in fair play, I'm sure that because of everything you've done, it will come around and help you in the end. Karma, I think they called it."

Patrick grunted, and walked forward to watch and care for Demon, leaving the captain to his job. He didn't want to admit that the Captain was right, but he wasn't wrong either. He would never have gone anywhere without that push from wanting to find his brother again. But this wasn't totally to help everyone else because his problems couldn't be solved. This was…

What? Patrick had no idea how to answer that. It was now three weeks since his brother had disappeared. Was it even worth it to keep looking now? He scowled. No. He wasn't going to give up just because the chances were stacked up against him.

The Wasteland is a crazy place. Maybe it was just crazy enough that he would found his brother.

The Ste. Agathe continued up the Red River as the sun began to set. The river was winding its way past the University of Manitoba, with all it's lights blazing bright as night approached. To the right St. Vital wasn't as bright, but every few blocks you could see a grouping where people were milling about, while there were long and depressing stretches where no one could be seen. Not that there wouldn't be anyone, as this, along with Fort Garry on the other side of the river, were the best places for those who wanted to be left alone or hide but still stay in Winnipeg would go.

As they continued up the river, more and more city blocks were lit, some even by streetlights that should have long ago been useless. But using special fusion batteries and even hydroelectric power from the dam near Selkirk, you could power enough of the city apparently. The biggest grouping of lights was in Osborne Village, where those that had some pounds to their name, but not an excessive amount, would live and work.

Further to the north, and past the railway that brought Patrick to Winnipeg a few weeks ago, was the Forks, and it was as bright as daylight there. All manner of lights, ranging from streetlights to burning torches to specially made and repaired neon signs could be seen flickering away, illuminating everyone and everything in the perpetual market that was the Forks.

The boat continued past most of the Forks, and the variety of boats tied up to the docks and piers that hugged the river line. To the north, near where the old baseball stadium was, the Ste. Agathe finally slowed down almost to a standstill, and drifted toward another, less well lighted dock where the RAMP and the Army maintained their ships. Assiniboia's rivers had long been known to be a viable transportation route, way back when Europeans came to trade fur and trinkets with the Indians that lived here. Though trains and cars supplanted all but leisure sailing before 2077, boats made a huge comeback after the apocalypse, especially when an engineer managed to take the fusion engines from the Chrysalis cars and converted them for naval use. While trains may be more reliable and faster, boats were more maneuverable and able to be used from up north in Lake Winnipeg all the way down to Fargo and further below.

When the Ste. Agathe was finally tied up at the pier and everyone was allowed off, the Enclave members were very reluctant to get off, even though the boat wasn't that fun for them.

That Captain turned to Patrick. "Just remember, Auxiliary, you are doing a great thing for Assiniboia, and I know it will come back to help you later."

Patrick could only nod, and lead Demon off the boat and onto the pier. He walked off onto the shore itself, where five RAMP officers were standing. One pointed at Patrick, and the rest turned around. Patrick saw that four of them were Dragoons, with their distinctive Red Serge that made them stand out from the rest of the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police. A shorter woman in the middle was also wearing the traditional RAMP uniform, complete with the perfectly aligned brown Stetson on her head with the pinched peaks, but with enough gold ornaments and decorations to make it clear that he was a high ranking officer.

The decorated woman walked up, and saluted, and Patrick did his best to return it.

"Welcome back to Winnipeg, Auxiliary Morrison," she said it, her voice instantly recognizable to Patrick as being Commissioner Jennifer Raymond. "I hope your trip wasn't too bad."

"It was alright," Patrick admitted.

"Good. Now, I have a few words for you," she interrupted, her voice turning cold and making Patrick wince. "Atwood is currently screaming for your head, but a lady claiming to be the minister for the town came in with a tribal, telling us what happened at Atwood. Now, We would have preferred if any issues that came up in towns with the RAMP be handled at we detachment level, but if half of what this Julie is saying is true, then I realize that wouldn't be possible. So, consider this both a 'good job' and a warning to try not to let such issues come up again."

"Yes sir… ma'am, I understand," Patrick said, grimacing at the possible outcome of letting Sergeant Black go free again. But that wasn't his concern for now, at least.

"Though I also have to commend you on your actions at Vault H as well. We have developed a strong case, and though the Dominion wants to keep it quiet, we are glad you managed to root out the Brotherhood of Steel influence there." Commissioner Raymond paused again. "And other than the cannibals you uncovered at Mord-Wink, with a tiral already underway, I think that's that. What do you have to report?"

"Sir, I've made contact with an unopened Vault who are descendants of the former US government."

There was a long silence. "Pardon?"

"There is a Vault full of people calling themselves the Enclave, with advanced weapons and technology, and they wish to meet with Assiniboia."

The silence was even longer now. "I've heard lots of crazy things, but that is perhaps one of the craziest. And having talked with the guys back in Melita, I know you aren't one to make things up, but this seems pretty incredible."

"I swear I'm not." Patrick looked over his shoulder, to see Colonel Granger, pale from the seasickness, finally stumble onto land. The Dragoons, suddenly raised their weapons.

"Hey!" Patrick shouted. "They aren't Brotherhood! I promise!"

The Dragoons lowered their guns, but not too much.

Deadeye next tried to jump off, though his balance was off and he then nearly fell into the river. Only the four dockhands that were there to help with the boat prevented him from being pitched in. And considering that it was several hundred pounds of steel and armor, falling into the Red River in power armor would not have been fun.

Captain Edwards shouted from the boat. "Give him a few hours rest, and tomorrow he should be fine." He then turned and barked some orders to the crew, and the Ste. Agathe began to putter down the river to the RAMP docks.

Commissioner Raymond looked over at them. "Who are they?"

"They are members of the Enclave I just mentioned. Part of the old US Government."

Commissioner Raymond looked over the two power armored men. "Well, they clearly aren't Brotherhood guys. That power armor is different from any I've seen."

"Apparently they developed their own," Patrick explained.

Commissioner Raymond hmmed. "Well, if they are who you say they are, then they could become valuable allies of Assiniboia. I will need to talk to the Prime Minister about it first though."

She was about to say something else when a Sleipnir rider, in red combat armor, galloped up and came to a halt beside Commissioner Raymond. "Commissioner! We just received this for you."

"Could it not have waited until I got back to the office?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You wanted this delivered to you as soon as we recieved any information." The rider handed a piece of paper to the Commissioner then saluted, and turned around and galloped back to the Forks and Main Street.

Commissioner Raymond took the paper, and looked it over. "Hmmm. This is… fortuitous, I could say," she said, folding the paper and looking up at Patrick. "I have some good news and bad news for you."

"Alright, what's the good news?" Patrick asked.

"The RAMP has been doing it's best to find Zach Morrison, your brother, and we have some leads as to where he, and the other kids that were taken, may be."

Patrick blinked in surprise, and then broke in a laughter filled beam. "Wow, I didn't believe you guys were actually doing that!"

Commissioner Raymond remained serious, though looked like she was affronted that anyone would doubt him. "The RAMP keeps our word. I may not see eye to eye with Commander Mackenzie back at Metigoshe, but I did order some resources to look for the missing kids, as he promised we would. And due to all the help you've given to Assiniboia, it's the least we can do. But that leads me to the bad news."

Patrick's joy began to sap away. "What now?"

"The best lead we have for your brother is in Brandon. And Brandon right now seems intent on causing some trouble out west since we are busy with the Brotherhood.

Patrick's heart suddenly went into freefall. Brandon was one of the last places he wanted to ever find himself in.

"So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, would you be willing to go to Brandon and help us some more? And maybe find your brother?"

Pip-Boy 3000 InfoTracker Note #92

A Short History of the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police

The RAMP is the pride of Assiniboia: a symbol of both the impressive strides made in the name of freedom and security in Assiniboia, and of the proud historical heritage of old Canada. Based off of the traditions of the world famous Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the RAMP was established from the remnants of the older police force after War of 2077. The Pre-War Police force had been forcibly dismantled by the United States Occupation Forces in 2073 when the RCMP did nothing to quell anti-American protests and riots after the annexation. Many officers soon became rebels, using their policing and firearms skills to strike back at the US Occupation. Soon possessing the famed Red Serge or anything that tied a person to the RCMP was a criminal offense, and the harshest punishments were dealt out to former RCMP members who attacked the US.

On the fateful day that the nuclear war started and ended, Winnipeg was spared the horrors of radiation and destruction. Premier Cooper, taking command of the city after the collapse of the American Army, called upon former RCMP members to retake their place as the police force to protect his new nation of Assiniboia.

As Assiniboia grew larger, the role of the newly rechristened Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police began that change as well. Four categories of officers were established: Dragoons, named after an old-world military unit, that are the best of the best and are the men that are the elite Special Forces of Assiniboia (usually with the rank Captain or higher); Members, comprised of the men that are everyday police officers, but also capable of serving with the military at a moment's notice as a highly trained reserve force and also serve as border patrols and many other policing duties; and Axillaries, who are civilians given the training of a RAMP officer but continue to live normal lives until they are called upon to help Members in their everyday activities or during wartime; and the Naval Service, RAMP officers who serve on the rivers and lakes of Assiniboia on boats specially designed to fight and protect those on the waterways of our nation.

After the War of 2077, the RAMP went back to its roots and began using horses on everyday duties for the first time since the 1930s, and after the last purebred horse died in 2084, their mutated cousins the Sleipnirs. While RCMP members had served with distinction in the First and Second World Wars on the frontlines, the modern RAMP was established as a combined police and paramilitary force, able to serve with the regular army in an instances notice. RAMP members are not only police officers, though that is their job first and foremost as they stand diligent duty in the many widespread detachments throughout Assiniboia, but they are also scouts, diplomats, the bodyguards of government officials, and the vaunted "Red Spear Point" of Assiniboian expansion.

They maintain the highest professional and ethical duty, and in the long, 141 year history of the RAMP, only six men have been unceremoniously discharged from duty: three due to corruption, one for trying to assassinate Prime Minister Jeremiah Calvert (who, to be honest, was a tyrant), one for a murder rampage that killed four innocent bystanders and one for stealing a chicken. This represents a 0.0004 failure rate!

Rest assured Assiniboia that you are protected from both common criminals, bandits, raiders and anyone that threatens the peace and security of our fair Dominion by the men and women in the Red Serge!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Patrick looked up from his briefing notes at the sound of a loud snore in front of him. One of the passengers on the train with him had his head back and in a deep sleep, his body rocking back and forth on one of the few UAR trains allowed to go straight to Brandon. The man had a half empty bottle in his hand, and the smell of whisky invaded Patrick's space, but there wasn't much could do. The train had stopped at PorLaPra, one of the first towns to join Winnipeg into the Dominion of Assiniboia, and several other smaller stops along the way, but was now racing further west as fast as the coal burning locomotive could go.

Patrick just shook his head and looked back at the papers he had been given before he left Winnipeg with background information on the history of Assiniboia and Brandon, and instructions of what to do. When he was informed of his job, he asked Commissioner Raymond why he was being sent.

"Because you are the Auxiliary that everyone has been talking about. And the bastards that run the place, as much as I hate to say this, admire strength and courage. You've shown both in spades," the Commissioner explained. "We could have sent a diplomat like usual, but they would most likely not be taken as seriously as you would be."

So here was Patrick, taking the train to Brandon, to meet with thugs that have bowed Assiniboia. Maybe the Dominion was more desperate than he thought. At least he had a Dragoon, Colonel Mortimer Januet, to travel with him, though it was clear that it wasn't something he relished. After all, a big war is coming, and here he was accompanying a random civilian, who may have just gotten lucky taking on some raiders before, to Brandon, a place that the Colonel clearly didn't like at all.

Brandon, or more accurately the gangsters that called themselves The Syndicate that ran the city-state, was even more of a problem than Patrick had ever thought. Melita, while just over 100 kilometers away from Brandon, had always seen the city and it's gangsters as a problem for those towns further north of his home, but not a major threat in any way. But if what half of the stuff he read was an indication, Brandon was a cancer for the entire country. Constant harassment and the occasional death of travelers and traders, aggressive posturing and rhetoric, and two humiliating wars that forced Prime Ministers from office and political parties to crumble, gave Brandon a boogeyman feeling to the authorities of the Dominion. The general feeling in the halls of the Legislative Building was don't provoke Brandon unless you are absolutely sure you can take them on, and more often than not, the politicians believed that just quietly giving into Brandon's demands were for the best. Patrick was sure his job, which was to give a sealed letter to The Boss, was basically going to be Assiniboia trying to buy off Brandon from attacking the Dominion while the Brotherhood was acting aggressively further south.

There was rumors of a Pro-Assiniboian movement within the city, the reports said, but the difficulty of communication in and out of Brandon meant that the RAMP was unable to do much to assist them, as much as they would want to. The attempts in the past were only temporarily successful, and later Prime Ministers and RAMP Commissioner's forbade any efforts to supply a resistance movement due to the cost in materials and lives it brought up.

Among the briefing notes of the politics was the evidence that some of the kids taken earlier, including his brother, that some were in Brandon. Some were pictured being sold in the slave market, being sold to the unscrupulous gangsters that controlled the town to do dangerous and menial labour, while others were seen being lead into the North End, where all the gangsters lived in apparent luxury. Some few ended up at the casinos, brothels and other less savory places in the town, all to feed the gambling, chems and sex that was the source of The Syndicate's wealth, power and influence.

The pictures were too grainy to see if Zach was among the kids, but hopefully he would be among them, and then he could get him back, and end this nightmare forever. He didn't care how he had to do it, he would.

Patrick spent more time reading the papers, even as he felt his eyes grow heavy and his heading bobbing forward before jerking upright. He had no idea when he actually did fall asleep, but all he knew was that when he woke up, the train had stopped, and the drunk that had been seated in front of him was gone, along with the couple of passengers. He looked at his Pip-Boy, and the clock told him it was a bit after 10 AM, so he guessed he was in Brandon now.

But when he looked out the window, he realized the small town of huts, pre-war houses and stores, and a sorry wooden train station wasn't Brandon. The old, peeling painted sign on the station said Carberry, which meant that he wasn't in Brandon yet, but easily a day's journey by sleipnir from here.

Patrick stood up, and walked to the end of the car, and climbed down onto the train platform, where the Dragoon assigned to him, Colonel Mortimer Jaunet, was talking with another RAMP officer, along with a tall, beautiful local woman in a skirt and jacket that did little to hide what she possessed, and the fat train engineer in his grimy gear, all talking at once in loud voices verging on violence.

"What's going on?" Patrick asked the crowd, making all four arguing men and women turn around to face him.

"Who are you?" the woman said, turning around and putting her arms on her hips, doing her best to flaunt the figure genetics had been nice to give her.

"I'm Pat-err, the Auxiliary," Patrick said, realizing that maybe the nom d' guerre could be useful in dealing with people that didn't know him. And it had a nice ring to it.

"The Auxiliary? The guy the radio has been talking about?" the lady asked.

Patrick gave a smile. "Yeah, that's me."

She hmm'ed as she looked over Patrick. "I always thought you would be taller."

"Anyway, what is going on here?" Patrick asked, ignoring the comment.

"The bridge over the Assiniboine River to Brandon has been destroyed," the woman said.

"We cannot continue due to UAR regulations," the engineer confirmed. "We can't risk valuable machinery, especially going to Brandon."

"As if!" Colonel Jaunet barked. "If it was, I would have gotten word about it already. The RAMP has sources in Brandon, and none of them have told Winnipeg anything."

"It just happened Colonel," the woman replied. "We got the news only half an hour before you came. Even the vaunted RAMP has delays in getting what they want."

Before Colonel Jaunet or the woman could argue more, the other RAMP officer stepped in. "Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt, but why don't we try to get confirmation about what has happened. It could just be a rumor or something."

Patrick chewed on his lips. "And if it's out, what do we do?"

The woman shrugged. "Most likely have to hoof it. You got sleipnirs, right?"

"Yeah, who doesn't?" Patrick said.

"Well if you follow the old Trans Canada Highway, it will take you straight to Brandon. Still don't know why you want to get there, especially in that get up," she said, looking at the resplendently dressed Colonel Januet. He wore the Red Serge, complete with the brown Stetson and black pants with the yellow stripe, and a Sam Browne belt that held his holster with his revolver, along with a fierce looking sniper rifle slung over his back. While most RAMP officers would wear the red painted combat armor as their "dress" uniform, as well as their everyday uniform, the Dragoons, along with the upper administration, were given the pre-War of 2077 uniforms of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a status symbol if there ever was one. Patrick could remember the controversy several years ago by the government to give all of the RAMP the Red Serge, which turned into a huge storm by those that wanted to keep the Dragoon's separate from the rest of the force, and those that wanted to make the Members equal to the Dragoons. Eventually the proposal was quietly shelved, and the Dragoon's kept their privileged position.

"Bah, those Syndie bastards will know better than to mess with a Dragoon," Colonel Januet exclaimed, puffing out his chest. Patrick had never seen Januet in action, but you didn't become a Dragoon by being average.

The woman rolled her eyes. "You Dragoons are so gung-ho… But fine. If you want to go to Brandon, get on your Sleipnirs and go west. Just be careful, because there are a lot things out there, and not all of them are human."

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"There are stories near the old military base that people just randomly disappear, some claiming the base is haunted." The woman scoffed. "But there is no such thing as ghosts. That base is so dead that not even a radgopher would go there."

A cool breeze picked up, chilling Patrick to the bone. He had a jacket that he slipped on, but the wind was vicious. A lazy wind as his grandpa called it once. It wouldn't go around you, but go straight through. The weather wouldn't hurt the crops back home, but it wasn't fun to be in either.

Patrick grimaced, remembering planting the fields back home with his grandfather. He sighed, looking down Demon's mane, but not focusing on it.

It had been over three weeks since he left home to find Zach, and he was nowhere close to finding him than he had been back then. Was it worth looking anymore? For all he knew, Zach could have been halfway to the Rocky Mountains to work in the mines, or dead in a ditch somewhere in Saskatchewan. While the small towns out there said they respected law and order, slavery wasn't just a random occurance, but a fact of life. Kids? Old men? Pregnant women? As long as they could work, then it was perfectly fine for the mine owners.

"No," he muttered quietly. "Got to keep going. Got to."

"What was that?" Colonel Januet shouted back, looking over his shoulder. His sleipnir, a mare trained and raised for the RAMP service, purposefully strode forward, single mindedly devoted to marching wherever her owner told her to go.

"Nothing," Patrick replied, sitting up straight. Colonel Januet shrugged, and looked around. "So are we even on the highway anymore?"

"I don't know," Patrick said, pulling up the Pip-Boy map and following it. "The map says we should be on the highway, or right next to it."

"Weird," Januet said. "You'd think there would be more broken pavement or signs or something."

Patrick looked up and around. He didn't see anything either. While signs had metal, which was always a valuable commodity in Assiniboia, going along the highways to find them would be a time consuming and not even lucrative business, as most of the signs would be so rusted and decrepit to make them useless for much. He heard of towns in the Saskatchewan Territory that traded for signs as collector's items, but that never really caught on in old Manitoba.

"Could the Pip-Boy's coordinates be wrong? The locator device inside it?" Colonel Januet asked.

"I don't know. I'm not an engineer," Patrick said. "Well if we just keep heading west, we should eventually hit Brandon. If not, we may hit another highway…"

"Hey, wait… what's that?" Colonel Januet asked, pointing ahead.

Patrick strained his eyes to make out what it was. It looked like a tree trunk that had been growing out of the ground at a 45 degree angle. But as they got closer, Patrick realized it was a cannon, half buried in the ground, rusty, but still mostly intact.

"Huh, that's new," Januet said. "We must be near the old military base, Camp Shilo I think."

"Wasn't it nuked during the war?" Patrick asked.

"Yeah, I think so."

Patrick pulled up his Pip-Boy map again. "We are about… 10 kilometers north of the base, I think."

The Dragoon maneuvered his dragoon around the artillery, looking at it from all sides. "It looks like it wasn't buried, but plowed into the ground." The dragoon looked again. "Geez, if a nuke dropped on the base threw this cannon, that must have been a hell of a blast. Most likely nothing left of the town or any buildings, I bet."

"Want to go check? We should maybe make camp for the night anyway."

The dragoon thought for a minute, then shrugged. "I guess. I'd rather not have to stay in Brandon overnight, so sleeping out here would be a better idea."

They continued south for a bit, until they found a sign proclaiming that the area was an installation of the US Armed Forces, and all civilians must report to a checkpoint. They were at least going in the right direction now.

The followed the directions on the sign until they got to an old wooden building, with a rusty robot sitting in it.

"Attention!" the robot, a combat version of the hoovering Mister Handy short all but one of it's three eyes, barked. "This base is under lockdown! Civilians and Canadian residents are not allowed into Camp Shilo under any circumstances!"

Patrick turned to Januet, then back to the robot. "Uh, the War has been over for 140 years."

"No authorization to lift the lockdown has been given," The robot said. "So this is your final warning! I am authorized to use dead-"

BAM! The robot spasmed for a moment, then collapsed to the ground. Patrick spun around to see Colonel Januet holstering his revolver.

"Authorization granted," he smirked, making Patrick chuckle.

They continued along the road, through some trees and a small residential area of uniform houses, until they came to a huge, wide clearing. The hooves of their sleipnir's crunched on the ground like broken glass. Not a thing grew anywhere for hundreds of meters in any direction. Only a few concrete chunks and brick walls still stood here and there, but otherwise there was nothing.

"Well, this looks like where the bomb went off," Patrick said. "The entire base is gone."

The geiger counter on Patrick's Pip-Boy didn't tick much, so the fallout must have died away to a safe minimum, leaving the area empty and desolate. The cool breeze felt even colder now.

Colonel Januet's mare suddenly snorted, it's hooves sinking into the ground as if it was a swamp, which was weird, considering they were nowhere near any source of water.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Colonel Januet shouted, yanking on his mare's reins, but the sleipnir kept sinking, squealing and whinnying in panic, before the equine and rider suddenly vanished right ahead of Patrick, followed by a painful and panic filled scream of human and animal echoed out of the hole.

"Colonel?" Patrick shouted, pulling Demon to a stop and dismounting, running forward to the hole where the Dragoon vanished. "Colonel Januet?"

"Patrick!" a voice called up. "Can you get down here? I can't see a thing."

Patrick looked around, turned on his Pip-Boy light and flashed it down the hole, which Patrick judged was about fifteen or twenty feet from the surface.

The Dragoon and his ride where laying on their side, though it wasn't a pretty sight. The sleipnir was panting heavily, a couple of its eight legs thrashing about. A couple jutted out at weird angles, making Patrick cringe at the sight. Unlike the four-legged creatures that sleipnirs were descended from, a broken leg wasn't necessarily a death sentence due to the double number of legs. A trained veterinarian might have been able to set the leg and help the creature, but that wasn't a great possibility right now.

Colonel Januet was not in much better shape. He was still straddling his mare, so one leg was pinned under the three-quarter ton sleipnir, while a trickle of blood traced it's way down his hatless head.

Patrick carefully slid his way down the hole, dirt crumbling all around him. "I'm coming, just relax, and don't move."

Patrick's feet landed on the ground, and carefully looked around. Down one way, to the south, a darkened tunnel snaked away, angling downwards. But he couldn't explore the tunnel yet, not until the immediate crisis was solved.

Patrick reached into his bag and pulled out a syringe of Med-X and jabbed it through the Red Serge uniform and pushed the plunger, pushing the pain reliever into Colonel Januet's system.

Colonel Januet's eyes, filled with fear and pain, suddenly went soft, glazed over in relaxing. That Med-X was powerful stuff, Patrick knew. He went over to the sleipnir, and investigated the beast. While it's nostrils flared and it tried to neigh weakly, it was otherwise quiet and still.

But the early prognosis was held up as Patrick looked over the mare. "This doesn't look good Colonel. I don't know if we can save her."

The Dragoon weakly nodded. "I was afraid of that. Betsy here was a good girl."

Patrick pulled out his pistol. The Sleipnir looked up at Patrick, not fully understanding what was happening. Patrick rested the barrel of the 10 mm on the Sleipnirs head, squeezed his eyes shut, and squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession.

The sleipnir spasmed a few times, then one more time, and went completely limp. Patrick took a deep breath, and looked over to Colonel Januet. "Okay, if I try to lift her, can you pull your leg out?"

"I'll try," Colonel Januet said, his voice soft and distant. Patrick got as close as he could, tried to find a place to grab hold of the sleipnir's body. He took a deep breath, and heaved it up as high as he could. Colonel Januet grunted and pulled himself back, but he cried out in pain, which even the chems injected into his system couldn't block out. Patrick tried to keep the sleipnir up as high as possible, and with a loud grunt, Colonel Januet pulled himself out.

Patrick let go of the sleipnir's body, and helped turn the injured RAMP Dragoon around, and leaned him up on the wall.

"Thanks Patrick," the Colonel said, the Med-X kicking into his system again. "But I don't know what to do with this leg," he said, pointing to the one that had been crushed under the beast. Patrick was sure broken bones were only the start to the agony Colonel Januet was going through right there.

What the hell does he do now? Should he maybe go down the tunnel, see what was down there? Or should he race back to Carberry to see what he could do there.

The Carberry trip would take the rest of the day, and traveling out in the evening wasn't usually a good idea. And if he looked down the tunnel first, maybe there would be something there that he could use to help. And if not, well at least he tried there first.

"Okay, I'll go look down this tunnel and see if there is anything," Patrick said to the Colonel, who looked down the darkened tunnel.

"Can you get my gun from my… oh, wait," Colonel Janeut started. "My gun was in the saddle bag under Betsy."

Patrick pulled out the .44 Magnum out of his holster and handed it to the Colonel, along with a box of ammo from his backpack. "I don't know what's down there, but this should make sure you're safe."

Patrick also pulled out a few more syringes of Med-X. "If you start feeling the pain again, inject these." Colonel Januet took them, nodding.

Patrick took a deep breath. "If there is nothing here, I will have to go back to Carberry. So hopefully I find something."

The Colonel only nodded, and watched as Patrick, his service rifle at the ready and the Pip-Boy light providing a bright green beacon, walked away.

The walls were simply dirt, and Patrick could still tell where shovel and pickaxe marks were made, but it wasn't fresh. As he went along the path, deeper and deeper underground, rotten wood, bent shovelheads and empty, rusty tin cans increasingly piled up. Piles of dirt and stone littered the ground, and Patrick tripped over a couple every so often.

A low growl echoed through the tunnels, making Patrick freeze. He bent down, chambering a round into his bolt-action rifle, and holding it at the ready, and slowly crept forward. The tunnel didn't deviate from its straight course, which intrigued Patrick. Who made this tunnel, and how did they make it so straight?

Patrick couldn't worry about that right now. He could hear the growls, and they were closer than before. He almost wanted to turn off the Pip-Boy light, but the black tunnel would be impossible to walk through otherwise.

Then he saw it. Two glowing eyes, unblinking in the darkness. Then two more, and then even more.

Patrick quickly raised his rifle, and fired several shots at the eyes, working the bolt action each time until the 10 bullet clip was done. The gunshots were deafening in the small space, and Patrick winced as he felt his ears ring. A loud squeal of pain, followed by more howls and growls of animals could barely be heard. Patrick held up his arm, and he could see a half dozen radgophers in the tunnel, though one lay sprawled on the ground, dead.

The rest scampered away in the bright light that hurt their sensitive eyes, squealing in agony. Patrick took put his 10mm pistol, and fired a couple more shots, and hoped that would be enough to make most of them run away.

He took a moment to catch his breath. There were a lot of radgophers there, which surprised Patrick. They usually didn't have big packs like that, due to the scarcity of food in most farming areas, and there were few farms this side of Brandon, as far as Patrick could remember. They were also a lot larger than usual, almost double the size of a normal radgopher. Had he stumbled on a new mutation? Or where these giant radgophers just better hunters?

Patrick walked up to one of the bodies, and investigated. Their teeth were longer that what he usually, and it looked like their canines and ripping teeth were larger, than usual. They must have had a mostly meat filled diet, which was also concerning and weird to Patrick. He knew radgophers may kill humans when desperate, but they were mostly herbivores.

By instinct, Patrick cut the tails off the dead radgophers, and began to explore deeper down the tunnel.

Giant radgophers kept coming up the tunnel, but they weren't exactly seeking to hurt or kill Patrick. If anything, the giant radgophers, though suspicious of the human, just stayed clear. A few loud gunshots and the bright Pip-Boy light helped a lot to make sure it stayed that way.

The ground, which had been on a gentle slope for a while, suddenly straightened again, but continued straight for a few more feet. Patrick cautiously walked forward a bit more, and nearly tripped and fell at a sudden drop into what looked like a room of some kind.

Patrick looked around, blinking. This didn't seem right. The walls looked like something that he saw in Vault H, though they weren't metal but simple concrete. The floors were not in as good of shape, the large linoleum tiles breaking and crumbling under foot. Lights hung from the roof, but it didn't look like anyone had turned them on in years. Was this a Vault? Why had he never heard about this Vault before?

But the thing that really caught Patrick's attention was the chaos all around him. Tables and desks on their sides with bullet holes as if they were a last desperate line of defense; cartridge cases around old firearms that hadn't been touched in possibly a century after they had been dropped; bones that had been gnawed on; scraps of clothing thrown about everywhere; a sickly dark brown on the walls and floor that could only be dried blood,

"What the hell did I just walk into?" Patrick said, his voice unable to hide the nervousness of what he had just come into. This could have been an approximation of hell, or a hell that could only be made by humans without nukes.

Patrick shuddered, but not because of the cold air, though it felt even cooler down here than it did outside. He found a sliding door similar to what you would see in a Vault, rusted to the point that nothing was legible on the steel if there had been anything, only that it had been busted inwards, and Patrick could see into the hallway. It was just as straight as the tunnel, with more doors, some open, some closed, all like the one he was looking through. More bones, guns and blood lay everywhere, as if the inhabitants of this vault decided to just kill everyone else one day.

Patrick began to walk down the hallway, glancing into different rooms. They were exactly the same: two bunks on either wall, most still perfectly made, with a few personal artifacts here and there that had gathered dust over time: clothing, jewelry, models, books, comic books, magazines. He saw a few giant radgophers, though they didn't seem to want to bother him. It didn't prevent Patrick from shooting some in a panic, startled at the quiet suddenly being broken by securing feet and the screeching radgophers. But they never attacked him. In fact, they seemed fairly docile. Fat and happy.

In one room, Patrick was surprised to see the familiar green screen of a computer terminal.

"I'll have to check that later," Patrick mumbled to himself, before walking down the hall to the end. "Maybe it will tell me what the hell happened here."

At the end of the hallway, Patrick entered a large atrium, though it was more a walkway around a large opening that went up and down for who knew how many floors. This was clearly bigger than Vault H, which felt so tiny, almost claustrophobic. You could have saved so many more people in a place like this than Vault H, but this place looked a lot more expensive, even if the accommodations seemed more barebones. And like before, blood, bones and guns littered the floor.

There were stairs on either side, with more straight hallways leading away, everything arranged perfectly symmetrically. And better yet, a sign and a map on one wall that seemed to provide some directions.

"THIRD FLOOR: BARRACKS" the sign exclaimed in large stenciled letters. Along the side, there was a short directory. Apparently there were five floors all together: the first was mostly administration with an armory, floor two was personal services like food and medical three and four were all barracks, and the fifth was maintenance and equipment.

"I guess go see about the generators?" Patrick thought, but he shook his head. "No, I need to help the Colonel." So up to the second floor he went.

The Second floor was a lot smaller, but had a map in the same spot as it did a floor down. Tracing his finger, Patrick was able to find the Medic station, and walked around the walkway to where the medic station was.

Along the way, he could hear loud snarls and ravenous eating. He peaked into a door and noticed a huge pile of giant radgophers, apparently standing around a massive machine that filled most of the room, and was oozing out some weird pink-red goo from a pipe, which the creatures were nosily eating, though they weren't exactly fighting each other much. The machine rumbled quietly, which was also surprising to Patrick. How was this thing still working? Was in an emergency generator? Some nuclear battery that hadn't yet run out?

"Is that why they are so big?" Patrick asked himself, flashing his Pip-Boy into the room. The giant creatures squealed in pain and agony at the bright light, scampering away to hide in the darkness, running away from their meals.

Patrick carefully walked up to it, the smell of raw, uncooked meat hitting his nostrils in a huge wave, nearly making him throw up. He got to the machine, and noticed a metal plaque on the side with "Auto Food Processor." Patrick looked around the machine, making the giant radgophers scamper away from him to avoid the blinding light. He noticed a few switches to the side, and some instructions. Patrick couldn't read it all, but apparently this machine grew plants and such inside it, mulched it down, and turned it into whatever meal was required. Patrick saw it was apparently switched into a Meat mode, which explained why the rodents were massive, but also not that violent to him.

"Still don't want to have to deal with you guys later," Patrick thought, and flipped the On/Off switch. The machine sighed to a stop, finally finished it's long job.

As Patrick left, purposefully shutting the door behind him, the giant radgophers scurried back to the food, but when they ate the last of the processed food, but no more came out, the docile animals began to whimper and whine, before soon they began fighting with each other. Patrick cringed at the pain filled squeals and agonizing cries, but the farmer in him knew he had done the right thing.

Turning around the corner and through another open door, he noticed a lot of medicine and equipment lying around, all pre-War of 2077 vintage, including a very old Auto-Doc though it looked it was mostly likely non-functional. The most surprising thing Patrick saw as a robot booth, a metal tube that held a robot in suspension above the ground.

Patrick carefully walked over, and looked at it. It was one of those Mister Handy robots, much like the one that Colonel Januet had shot earlier, the ones with multiple arms that were sold to the public as a personal servant and butler, but this one appeared to have been modified. This robot had the saw, flamethrower and the plasma gun of the regular Mister Handy (which confused Patrick: why would a civilian robot need so much firepower?) but it also had several arms that appeared to have been designed to be very delicate and special.

Patrick used the electronic panel on the robot bay, and pushed the green activate button. A loud whirring, followed by the start of a small nuclear generator signaled that the Mister Handy was waking up.

A series of beeps and garbled robotic words followed suit before there was a cheerful ding.

"Mister Handy serial code 4897-098-183, named 'Jenkins,' online and active. Last activation date was 45,937 days ago. Warning: 20 year warranty is expired!" The silvery robot had a stiff, proper British accent, similar to what Patrick had heard in old movies and radio plays for the "butler," or those people from Englishfordshire that had made a name for themselves with the DBS as prim and proper old Englishmen and women.

It suddenly spun around and faced Patrick. "Ah! How may I serve you master?"

"Master?" Patrick asked.

"But of course! My primary programming is to help and aid anyone that requires assistance in 2,387 different tasks that have been programmed into my memory banks." The robot whirred for a moment. "Conducting diagnostics. ERROR, ERROR: file corruption detected. Currently only 34 tasks can be performed by me. Please take me to the nearest General Atomics International retailer or service representative for maintenance."

"I… I don't know. I just found you. And I'm guessing you had been inactive for quite a while."

"That is no matter! General Atomics International is well known for building products that will stand the test of time." He suddenly shuddered and sparked, but remained hovering off the ground.

"Who was your last owner?"

"The last owner I had was the Canadian Army, and I'm modified to be used as a medical assistant. As such, it is my personal duty to save and protect the lives of those affiliated with the Canadian Army."

"Well, the Canadian Army no longer exists." Patrick said. "They were disbanded after being annexed by the United States."

"Oh dear, that is a shame. The Canadian Army, were nice people." Jenkins said, and seemed to be actually sincere. "But I should say, the people that used my services the most were a group that I heard was called the Canadian Liberation Front. They had a desperate need for medical attention when I was last activated, and someone must have reporgrammed me to help anyone, and not just my owners, so I fulfilled my duty."

"What happened to them?" Patrick asked, fearing he knew the answer already.

"I don't know. I was deactivated and put on standby on Thursday, August 14, 2092."

Patrick blinked. "That's a very long time ago."

"Yes, it would be. Anyway, considering that by all realistic expectations my last users would be long since dead, I am now at your service, Master. If you wish for a more personal experience, you can provide me with your name so I can address you properly."

"Patrick Morrison," he replied.

"Very well, Master Patrick Morrison. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I have a friend who injured himself. Can you help me?"

"I will see what I can do to assist you!" the robot cheerfully stated. "Lead the way Master!"

When Patrick and Jenkins came back up the path (after shooting some more giant radgophers), Colonel Januet had his gun pointed in that direction, but it was clear that his arm was wavering. The drugs must have really got to him.

"Colonel! It's me," Patrick called out. "This Mister Handy should be able to help you."

Jenkins buzzed ahead, and an electronic scanner x-ray thing went up and down Colonel Januet, who only stared at the robot in concern. "Hmmm. This is not good. Quick prognosis scans indicate four fractures on the femur, shattered knee and severing of nerves above the knee. I will most likely have to amputate above the knee to save you."

Colonel Januet blinked slowly. Patrick noticed that all five of those Med-X syringes had been used. That wasn't going to be good.

"Yeah, do whatever you need to," the colonel said quietly. "Just give me something to drink to numb the pain."

"I'm also reading that you have high levels of Med-X in your system. Inadvisable to provide alcohol at this point," Jenkins said. "However, I can provide anesthesia." The robot turned around. "Master Patrick, I would advise you look away, as this next procedure is not for the faint of heart."

Patrick readily nodded. "Good luck, and please don't kill him."

"Don't worry! I have preformed 386 operations with only 10 patients dying!"

Patrick hoped Colonel Januet wouldn't be the eleventh.

Patrick remembered the computer in that room he saw earlier, and decided to go see if it worked. Maybe there would be something to explain why it looked like this base turned into a hellhole.

Past the blood and bones and radgophers, Patrick finally found his way back to the room with the computer terminal. Unlike the other rooms he saw, this one had a single bed, quite possibly a commanding officer's room. There were doors that lead into an office and another for a private bathroom, though Patrick had no idea if the plumbing still worked here. After all, after 100 plus years of being abandoned, would the pipes still be working? Was the water even safe for use? Patrick had no inclination to find that out today.

When Patrick finally got to the computer, he stopped short. Human remains lay next to it, and a 10mm pistol on the floor where it must have landed. Patrick picked up the gun, and pulled out the magazine. There was only 11 bullets in the 12 bullet clip. Patrick looked down at the bones for a moment, before dropping the gun and giving a full body shudder. He looked away from the body and to the computer. He used his sleeve to brush away some of the dust and dirt on it, before pushing the power button. It beeped fairly loudly, making Patrick jump in surprise. It still worked?

"Amazing how this Rob-Co stuff can last," Patrick said to himself. The computer buzzed to life after a few moments, the vacuum tubes and analog electronics whirring to life from its long dormancy. Fortunately it wasn't password protected, and there appeared to be a few messages on the computer, all after 2075, over 150 years before, all of them registered under the name Norman Smith, a former Captain of the Canadian Engineer Corps.

"I'll just check some of this out, might come back after I rescue the Colonel," Patrick thought to himself. He should still be fine. Patrick hoped so anyway. He glanced at his Pip-Boy. It had only been twenty minutes since he left Colonel Januet to the care of the Mister Handy. He selected the first journal entry.

"The Americans were so stupid. They never found out about Camp Shilo's secret. The one I helped build, all those years ago. Apparently they 'abandoned' the base, though they say it's still being used. But now Canadian Liberation Front, my army, is going to set up base here, and use it to eventually overthrow and free our nation! And they will regret not using Camp Shilo! And those bastards will pay for everything they did."

Patrick scratched his head. Assiniboia loved going on about all the resistance groups that fought against the US, but he never heard of the Canadian Liberation Front. Odd.

The next message was just a few days after the start and end of the War of 2077. "The bombs have dropped. I knew it would happen. Eventually, it would have. One apparently landed right on top of us, and now myself and 400 other freedom fighters are trapped. We should be fine: all the tests and algorithms we ran when we were building this said that even a direct strike on the base wouldn't case a bit of damage. We just have to wait out the fallout. If that takes several months or years, don't think that will be a problem. All the food and supplies we need are still here, including one of those Auto Food Processor's was installed in here. I didn't know that, must have been right before the annexation and before we could use it. But it's working now, and now we could stay here forever. Forever."

Patrick looked around, at the bones and blood and everything else. Clearly not, he sighed.

The next few messages felt almost like propaganda, like Captain Smith was doing his best to assure himself and everyone around him that things were fine. They were alive, and soon the radiation would go away and they could wipe out whatever Americans remained. Lots of mentions about a "Sergeant Williams," who appeared to be the right hand man of Smith, and absolutely loyal and supportive, even as more and more people seemed to grumble and complain.

July 2078: "The men and women here are getting a bit antsy, and seem to splitting into two groups. One solider, Sergeant Anders, wants to get out of here and fight those Americans. But the radiation outside is too high, and if we were to go out, we would be dead in days from all the fallout. But Anders won't listen, and it seems most of the civies that joined the CLF agree with him. Apparently they believe those stupid comics that radiation will give you superpowers."

December 2078: "That fucking Anders. He just tried to force a leadership vote. I managed to win, but barely. Even Sergeant William's help with tampering with the ballots for me just pushed me over. Now Anders is trying to overthrow me. He doesn't realize what it's like out there. Maybe I should just kick him out, let him die. But he's a good soldier, and a smart medic. I can't afford to loose someone like him."

March 2079: "A FUCKING COUP. Anders and his followers just barged in on me in my office and tried to kick me out of the leadership of MY organization. I brought them all here to fight the Americans, survived the apocalypse, and this is the thanks I get? So glad Williams rounded up enough people to force Anders to give up. I locked him and the ringleaders in the brig now. That was a smart design idea to have the brig. Maybe a few days there, and he will learn his lesson."

"Someone sabotaged the Auto Food Processor," the next message a month later said. "The mechanics said it was a breakdown, but they are just covering it up. Anders most likely arranged it. He wants to overthrow me, to destroy the Canadian Liberation Front in some bravado march out the front door. DOES HE NOT UNDERSTAND THE DANGER? No, he doesn't. He's an idiot. Going to keep him locked up a bit longer."

The next message was in September 2079. "Finally got rid of Anders and the ringleaders of that coup. Keeping them alive is too much of a risk. Firing squad is a bit messy, and letting the bodies fall through the atrium and land on the bottom floor was even more so, but it's a lesson. Maybe next time saboteurs will think before they try to break the water filtration system!"

"There's a mole," Captain Smith wrote in January 2080. "The Americans hid a mole in the CLF, and is trying to ruin us. The Auto Food Processor went down again, and there was an explosion in the armory, destroying a lot of the guns there, killed a couple people. I'm going to find that mole. Firing squad will be too good for them. Get a cage and hang them over the atrium. No food, let them starve to death."

"Williams conducted the Loyalty Checks today," the next entry a couple days later said. "We found several people stashing forbidden items: American books and stuff. All of those people were promptly thrown in the brig and the materials destroyed. I don't care if the books were Huckleberry Finn or The Great Gatsby. It's still American propaganda, and it must be destroyed."

"Everything is falling apart," Captain Smith wrote in February. "It's all sabotage now. Someone is trying to kill all of us. They are committing treason against the Dominion of Canada. They will die."

The messages were getting more and more deranged and insane as he read them. "Apparently some men were digging a tunnel. And they were doing it just down the hall from me? How the hell did they manage that? How the FUCK DID I NOT NOTICE?! I ordered all their tools broken, the steel melted down in the armory. I'm going to make their lives a living hell in the Brig. No one will leave. I'm keeping them alive. It will be just a wasteland out there: radiation and monsters and Americans as far as the eye can see. They will live here and be safe."

The next post was April 2080. "Sergeant Williams… how could you betray me like this? The 'Front de Liberation du Canada?' You are a fucking liar. You did all this, didn't you. For the power, for the fame to actually free this country from the Americans? I bet they are all dead from the nukes anyway. Well I will crush you, and make you sorry."

Patrick shuddered again as he kept reading. "We are fighting the traitors now, They may have more people, but all the former soldiers follow me. We can hold them off in our wing. We can destroy them. I will hang them all. Draw and quarter. Tar and feather. Throw them into the nuclear reactor. I don't care, but they will all die!"

The next day, another entry, the second to last one. "The traitors are killing us. I have no idea how. We are killing them, keeping them away from their tunnel, saving their lives. Why will they not listen to me? Just stop shooting. Just go away. I will fight to the death. You will never escape. You will be safe forever. Forever. Forever. Forever. Forever. Forever."

Patrick trembled a bit as he selected the last entry, just a few hours later. "My name is Sergeant Jason Williams, Canadian Army. I served with the Engineer Corps in the construction of the Camp Shilo fallout shelter, and joined my former commanding officer Captain Norman Smith in the Canadian Liberation Front after the American annexation. We found ourselves trapped in the shelter after a nuclear exchange on October 23, 2077. I continued to support Captain Smith as we lived in this shelter for the next three years, but soon Captain Smith began to experience deep paranoia, anger and megalomania. I tried to restrain him as long as I could, but it became clear to me that he was going to destroy everyone in his search for enemies to himself and Canada, which doesn't exist anymore. We all know this, and maybe Captain Smith knew as well, but didn't want it to be true. But the facts are clear. Canada is dead. The world is dead.

"I supported a group that wished to dig their way out of the shelter to the north, which I was sure would be non-irradiated. However, after Captain Smith arrested the diggers, I couldn't stand it any longer. I mounted a mutiny against my commander, and declared the Front de Liberation du Canada into existence. Most of the base was willing to support me, and we managed to wipe out Captain Smith and his followers. However, he destroyed all the tools to continue digging out, and we do not have the material to make more, and most of my group died in the fire fight against the well entrenched followers of Captain Smith. I only have thirteen men left out of over 400 when we entered, and most of us are wounded. We are more or less trapped here now, and will die in this god-forsaken hole. I have no inclination to live the rest of my life here, having committed heinous crimes in the name of my commanding officer and then killing him in cold blood. This is my final testament and good-bye.

"When someone finds this in the future, use the lesson provided by my late commander in his descent into tyranny and madness as a warning against any possible future civilization that may arise: never let one man control everything. Never. Never blindly follow a man because he offers safety and security, for it's a lie. But be willing to stand up to authority if it only kills you. If you do not, there will be nobody left to save."

Patrick looked down at the skeleton, which he guessed was Sergeant Williams. Patrick closed his eyes and rested his head against the desk.

He could feel the darkness of this place, what happened in its halls, the echo of gunfire and screams of death and agony as former comrades killed each other. Patrick pushed himself away from the desk and stood up.

"I will remember Sergeant," Patrick whispered, before he quietly left the room.

Pip-Boy Infotracker Note #218

The Truth of the Resistance by Alan Dover, Private, Canadian Army

"So what was it like when the Annexation happened? Well, for one thing, I was out of a job. Been in the army for seven years at that point, and all that I got was a unceremonious "screw you" when the Yanks swept in. Didn't even give me a severance check. So, after a couple weeks of pissing away all the money I had drinking, I really had no other option but joining the resistance...

"All the talk by Assiniboia of the resistance being heros and helping free the nation is all a piece of shit. We all wanted to get rid of the Americans, sure, and we were able to gather all the guns, ammo, food and clothes we could find and make caches and stuff. But, whenever someone had the brilliant idea to try to attack an American convoy, or kill an American soldier, you were basically signing your death warrant. So many good resistance fighters were killed after some dumbass took a pot shot. The US Occupation wouldn't care if you spit at them or made posters and stuff, but so help you if you even shot at a soldier, or used poison in their food, or who knows what else. So many travesties, like Joliette, Halifax, Kamloops, Oak Lake, Heward, Innerkip and too many other towns to remember or were never mentioned broke the resistance, fracturing the fighters more and more as some wanted vengeance, some wanted to live...

"I survived only by sticking to groups that weren't led by idiots. But then someone, either someone that had a grudge or wanted revenge on the Americans, or was an infiltrator of one of the many American security or defense agencies trying to stamp out the resistance...

"The resistance only survived by not sticking our heads up. We only won because the Chinese nuked the US. It wasn't a victory like the Prime Minister and the DBS makes it out to be. It was just a fluke. We only won against the Americans because they all died."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Colonel Januet was awake when Patrick returned, while Jenkins had already finished worked on fixing up the leg. Or, rather, having amputated the limb and casually tossed to the side of the hole. The RAMP man's pants had been carefully sewn up as well, and the blood was only at a minimum.

"Welcome back Auxiliary," Colonel Januet said, though his voice was still a bit quiet from the after effects of the anesthesia.

"Ah, Master Patrick," Jenkins said, turning one of his three eyes to view Patrick. "The operation went swimmingly well, and the patient will be perfectly fine. How was your expedition into the base?"

Patrick shuddered when he thought of what he saw. "It was… well… Did you know of what happened, with all the fighting?"

"I didn't understand the specifics, but it wasn't a pretty sight, I will tell you; vicious and brutal. However I was only used as a medical practitioner, and I healed whoever came up to me."

Patrick nodded. "What happened to the people that survived the fighting? The computer I looked at said that everyone was trapped."

"Yes, that was the case. They made the best of it, but eventually the isolation and the feuding must have got to them." The robot, despite its cheery voice, seemed almost mournful. "It's a shame that the last man that put me on standby most likely took his own life at the end."

Colonel Januet cleared his throat. "Well now that he's back, we can go now, right?"

"Indubitably!" Jenkins exclaimed. "I'm just unsure how to get you out of here. Also, I think you need some crutches. Let me go back and find some." The robot buzzed away.

Patrick spent the next half an hour trying to figure out a way to climb out of the hole, and do so with a large man short a leg and most likely still drowsy from anesthesia. Looking through the saddlebag of the deceased sleipnir, Patrick was glad to find a long rope, long enough to not only tie around Colonel Januet, but also to possibly tie to Demon and carefully pull him out.

"Alright," Colonel Januet said as Patrick explained the idea. "I can at least use my hands, but your sleipnir will help." He was starting to come around now, but still sounded spaced out, like a drugged up character in a radio play.

Next, scrambling out the hole, Patrick was glad (but not totally surprised) to find that Demon was still hanging around nearby, munching on some stubborn grass in the area, but purposefully avoiding the hole. Domesticated Sleipnir's, even ill-tempered ones like Demon, were famous for staying close to their owners when not tied up.

"Here Demon," Patrick said after tying that rope to Demon's halter, carefully leading the sleipnir to the large hole. Patrick tossed the rope down the hole, and scrambled down again.

By now Jenkins was back with two crutches, both made out of some un-oxidized metal.

"These are the strongest that I have, good enough to help the Colonel walk," Jenkins said.

"Very well then, let's get this show on the road," Patrick said, making sure the rope tied around Colonel Januet and snug under his arms was properly knotted. Patrick climbed out of the hole again, where Demon still shuffled nervously, the smell of the dead Sleipnir down below most likely not helping much.

Patrick grabbed the reins and swung up on Demon, and began to carefully make the stallion back up. The rope tightened up, and with a creak began to pull Colonel Januet up.

"Easy Demon," Patrick whispered as the sleipnir pulled the heavy weight up. Colonel Januet cursed from the pain a few times, but he was able to get enough of a grip on the side of the hole to pull himself up.

One large hand reached up, grabbing hold of the dead grass and dirt, followed a moment later by the other hand. With a loud grunt, Colonel Januet heaved himself up, and landed belly first on the ground.

Patrick jumped off Demon and ran to the Colonel, pulling him onto the ground.

"Well, that was an adventure," Colonel Januet said with a weak smile, sitting up with Patrick's help as he untied the rope.

Patrick smiled, then looked back down the hole to the Mister Handy. "Jenkins, can you get out of there?"

"Of course! Just stand back, as I can't guarantee my 'jump' won't kill you!" Patrick was just trying to figure out what that meant when the Mister Handy's nuclear powered engines simply exploded, launching the robot out the hole and into the sky. Patrick and Colonel Januet both cried out as the sudden flash of bright light from a sudden flash nearly blinded both. Patrick stumbled as he tried to back away from the hole, landing with a thud on his rear.

Demon whinnied out loud in shock and turn and booked it a few hundred feet, before he turned around, pensive and nervous. Jenkins, however, gently floated downwards, hovering with his self contained nuclear reactor.

"What the hell was that? You could have killed us!" Patrick shouted, blinking as his eyesight began to return to normal.

"I'm sorry Master Patrick," the robot said, though the cheery voice made the apology less sincere than it could have been. "I had no other way to evacuate myself from the hole. It was just a blast of nuclear power to launch myself, similar to a miniature nuclear weapon. And I did warn you!"

Patrick looked down at his Pip-Boy, to see the little Geiger counter clicking, but for only a few rads.

"Don't worry, it shouldn't cause any lasting damage," Jenkins said. "And I have spare Rad-Away to help you!

Colonel Januet sighed and gave a mirthful chuckle. "Robots."

Getting Colonel Januet up on Demon was the next challenge. Demon was still spooked from the robot rocketing out of the hole, which most likely didn't do a lot to help against the equine's fear of robots. The Dragoon's left leg, the one the Colonel normally would use to swing up on a mount was the one that was now left to rot at the bottom of the irradiated hole. But after a few minutes of finagling, and a couple close calls, Colonel Januet was up on Demon, and tied in to make sure he wouldn't slip away.

Patrick wiped the sweat from his brow. "Alright, now that we got that done, we should head back to Carberry…"

"Carberry?" Colonel Januet asked. "No, we got to get to Brandon and get that message sent to those Syndie Bastards."

"Colonel, you really aren't in shape for this, you know?" Patrick pointed to the Mister Handy. "Would you really trust your life to a robot?"

"Master! Do you question me?" Jenkins asked.

The Dragoon waved his hand. "It's fine. I can handle myself. Hell, I don't even have to go into the city. Besides, I can't due to some treaty signed awhile ago. But you need to get there and deliver that message."

Patrick sighed. "Alright, if you say so."

The ragtag group ended up camping a few miles west of the remains of Camp Shilo due to the sudden crash of adrenaline Patrick had after only about an hour of walking. Colonel Januet was eager to go all night as Brandon was in the distance, and well lit up. However, Patrick, tired from walking, fell asleep soon after a dinner prepared by Jenkins, leaving Colonel Januet, the anesthesia nearly wore off, no choice but to camp out in the wasteland overnight.

The next morning, the Auxiliary, the legless Dragoon and the Mister Handy continued to Brandon, which was easily getting closer and closer. However, stuck to walking speed because of Patrick, it took until the late afternoon when they finally arrived.

A wall, mostly made out of scrap metal, old chain link, barbed wire, old cars and even train cars with old world railways like the CPR and CN Rail painted on and barely legible amongst the red rust, encircled the entire city of Brandon. Towers built out of scrap wood and metal, with spotlights and machine guns positioned in such a way that they could point out of the fortress or into the besieged town as the operator desired convinced Patrick to keep walking away toward the nearest entrance, which was a major checkpoint built across the old Trans Canada highway to the north.

Four big burly men and a couple equally intimidating women in black suits and carrying submachine guns scowled at Patrick, Colonel Januet and Jenkins as they walked up.

"What's yer bis-e-ness here?" one of them spat at the group.

"I have a message for The Boss from the Dominion of Assiniboia," Patrick said in the calmest, firmest voice he could muster, even though right now he wasn't sure if the thugs here could be intimidated. After all, these guys, or more likely their ancestors, had beat Assiniboia in big fights. Not once but twice.

"Give er here," the man said.

"My orders are to deliver it directly," Patrick said.

The man scowled deeper than before. He could hear cloth rustling behind him, most likely Colonel Januet reaching for his weapon, while a couple of the gangsters nearby audibly clicked the safeties off their weapons.

The one man turned to the radio in the shed, and radioed a mumbled message, most likely to someone else in Brandon. After an equally inaudible reply, the man turned around, his frown turned even lower than Patrick thought humanly possible.

"Fine. You come on. The bucket o' bolts and de Rampie have to stay out here," the man said, before barking to one of the men and a woman to lead Patrick into the city.

The two "guides" were well over a head taller than Patrick, and held their weapons in a way to make sure that no one would mess with them. They followed the highway that was still lined with the ruins of gas stations, motels and restaurants until it got to another road marked with a rusty sign saying 1st Street, and the two gangsters turned down it, and Patrick followed behind.

To the right was a small suburb of Brandon, a bunch of pre-war homes though most were in a state of repair that looked like a nuke had been dropped on it. However, Brandon didn't get bombed in 2077, much like Winnipeg. However, the long distance and rivalry between the two cities, once both part of the province of Manitoba, ensured that they would be split apart after the war, and seemingly never reunited again.

Off to the left, around another barbed wire fence and car wall, was a massive four-story red brick building.

"What's that?" Patrick asked, before realizing he had done so."

"The Asylum," the woman said. "All the trouble makers go there to be re-educated."

"Or we just shoot them. It's a fun sport," the man said, making both of them laugh and Patrick shudder.

"Just keep your nose clean, don't piss us off, and don't even think about talking back to The Boss, and you should be fine," the woman continued. But Patrick was sure she was only saying that because she had to. The tone of her voice screamed 'I just want to hurt you with any excuse I can find.'

They walked down the hill to the Assiniboine River valley. Down around the river flats was a massive train yard. Most of the old grain and box cars had long since been removed, most repurposed for the walls that now surrounded Brandon. The UAR was allowed to run one or two trains a week to Brandon from Winnipeg, most full of gamblers and people that thought Brandon was better than the capital of Assiniboia (which said a lot about them, Patrick thought), though no trains were allowed to go through, like to Melita.

Melita… Patrick just realized how long it had been since he was at home, or even thought of it, and a sudden pang of homesickness washed over him. Maybe after he was done here, he should go back, see how May Morrison was doing…

The guards turned again, this time onto Rosser Avenue, just south of the train tracks. Brandon was built straddling both sides of the valley, but the southern half was were Brandon earned it's reputation. Casino's, bars and hotels along 18th Street to cater to wealthier individuals, with seedier dives, chem dealers and prostitutes not even a block away to entice those that had money but wanted more bang for their buck. Of course, if you got sucked in deep enough; got you addicted to Jet or whiskey or were way past your ability to pay after your last dice roll failed in the casino, then nothing but bad things would happen.

If you were lucky, the Syndie gangsters that came in would just beat you up then kick you out of town. A bullet to the knee if they felt malicious one day; a bullet to the head if they were in a foul mood. But most likely, they would offer a deal that would seem too good to be true: You can work off your debt to the city.

The two gangsters stopped as a column of thin, disheveled and downtrodden souls were marched by, heading west. These were some of the men and women who were given that deal, and were regretting it to this day. They were past hoping to ever get out of their debts, which the bastards that ran the city made sure would keep growing, with interest, for as long as they felt like torturing or making use of their slaves.

One way to pay off that massively increased debt was in The Keystone Center, the pre-war hockey arena and convention center that was now used for less productive and more violent means. Patrick had heard the stories of what happened inside the building, which The Syndicate generously described as "The Lottery," but was really a bloody fight to the death between starving, drug addicted, desperate gladiators. Win enough battles, and you would be free to go.

They walked past the old arena, and from inside Patrick could hear loud screams for blood, most likely drowning out any cries of pain and agony. Patrick shuddered, his mind unable to comprehend why anyone would think such fights were fun to watch.

Maybe it required a dog-eat-dog mentality that Brandon so seamlessly provided. Patrick was so glad to have never been born this far north.

"Alright, Assie," the woman barked, snapping Patrick out of his morose thoughts. "Almost there."

"There" was an old shopping mall just a few short blocks from the Keystone Center, a long building that had been turned into the headquarters of the Syndicate. Most of the old signs that advertised the wares that had been sold had fallen or been torn down over the years. In their place, a massive sign that dominated most of the skyline of southern Brandon screamed a simple, chilling slogan: "Work Will Set You Free." Patrick thought he heard that used somewhere else, but he couldn't think of it right now.

Entering the main base of the Syndicate was like stepping into a completely different world. The floors were clean, the walls recently painted, everything appeared organized and tidy. Patrick had to blink, thinking that he had just stepped into a portal and transported somewhere entirely, maybe to October 22, 2077. The only way Patrick realized he was still in the same place was that armed guards, all in black suits and with guns pulled and ready to use at a moment's notice walked down the halls of the shopping mall.

Patrick followed the two guides down one hallway, then down another. Somewhere around here, Brandon General Radio had its station, playing "pop" music and soap opera's and anti-Assiniboian propaganda.

Most of the storefronts were long since cleared out of anything useful, and most were now apartments for the leadership of the Syndicate, with some of the larger ones turned into art galleries and comfortable living rooms. A few did have some Syndicate members drinking, gambling and shooting up, and otherwise enjoying themselves. A fight even broke out in one of the bars, but it was pretty quickly stopped with a few gunshots from a submachine gun.

"Here," the female guard said as they stopped outside one of those larger rooms, the mannequins and the clothes that they were wearing confirming that this had been a woman's clothing store before the War of 2077.

Before the guard could open the door that went in, it opened itself. A man with a closely cropped beard and hair wearing a simple robe made out of Brahmin leather walked out of the room, flanked by two other black Syndicate gangsters. He smiled to Patrick as he walked by, nodding respectfully to him. Patrick returned the gesture, though he thought he knew that style of clothing, one that he saw a while ago. He just couldn't remember where and who it was now, much to his disappointment.

The male guard shoved the butt of his gun into Patrick's side after the man and his escorts had walked away, making the Auxiliary jump. "Go in."

Patrick swallowed, and straightened his back, before marching into the door. He was scared. No, terrified. But he wasn't going to let these brutes see it. At least that's what he promised himself. If it worked or not, he didn't know.

The room was quiet when Patrick entered, without a single person standing nearby. Patrick glanced around, hoping to find somebody, but his eyes caught the many objects that filled the room. The shelves and tables that would have held the latest fashions a hundred and forty years previously were now full of mementoes and relics of a power hungry dictator: intricate sculptures, bright paintings, and old electronics that may or may not work, all symbols of wealth, power and prestige even after the War of 2077. The weapons that were polished and carefully displayed, ranging from simple pistols and rifles to mini-guns, flamethrowers and a Fat Man mini-nuke launcher seemed more than just a simple collection, maybe more for intimidation that usefulness.

A large map on the wall behind a massive wooden desk was the most curious item to Patrick, and it drew him to look at it closely. It was huge, as was the area it covered, and looked, maybe not new, but more modern than the old maps made before the war. It stretched from the middle of Saskatchewan in the west to the toxic waste dump that was the North-West Angle in the east, North to the glacier that covered the most northern reaches of North America, and south to the ruins Minneapolis, Minnesota. Light lines showed each district and territory of Assiniboia, while multicolored pins, arranged in a color coded pattern, filled the map, ranging from Assiniboian troop movements to agents of the Syndicate all through the world contained on the paper. This map showed the full extent of the Syndicates power, and it was massive. Seeing those pins stuck in places like Winnipeg, PorLaPra, Vault H made sense, but the ones in Mord-Wink, Turtletown, and even Melita made Patrick shudder. He knew the Syndicate was a threat. Just not that it was this much. Who was the spy in Melita? Did he know them? Did they know him?

"Ah, you must be the Auxiliary," a soft female said, making Patrick spin around. She wasn't very tall, and was very thin, the black suit she wore tailored to accent her figure even further. She might not have been called beautiful, her blonde hair cut in a very short, utilitarian style and she wore no makeup, but she had an air about her that screamed ruthless determination and power, and Patrick could feel himself shrinking under her cold, grey eyes. "I've heard a lot about your work in Assiniboia, though my agents say that the DBS doesn't embellish your record much. And all over your brother!" she chuckled. "Family is important. I must say that The Syndicate could always use someone like you."

"Yes, I'm the Auxiliary," Patrick said, instinctively removing his hat and holding it in his hands. "Are you the Boss?"

She raised an eyebrow, though that did little to hide the fierce glare that still bored into Patrick. "You sound surprised."

"I just didn't realize you were… a… lady," Patrick replied, his attempts at remaining at least stoic faltering him now.

"What does it matter what I have between my legs?" The Boss said, making her way to the desk. "I have enough testosterone addicted idiots outside to do my dirty work. The Syndicate doesn't need to be run by it."

"You said you knew about my brother?" Patrick asked.

"Only that you are looking for him." The Boss walked to her desk, and pulled out a piece of paper. "This is a list of all the kids that ended up here after that attack down south at the beginning of the month." She handed it to Patrick, sat down and read it. "If he's here, I may consider letting him go."

Patrick sat up straight, and used his finger to go down the list. He gave a squawk of surprise. There was a Zach on the list! But the last name was Harvey, and it sounded like he was from a farm near Souris, which immediately deflated all his hopes.

"He's not here," Patrick said, handing the list back with a resigned sigh. Twenty seven kids were on the list, but though he didn't know them, he was sad to see that many families had been torn apart.

"What would it take to free all the kids here?" he asked.

The Boss snorted. "All the gold in the Royal Assiniboian Mint," she said. "I'm not returning valuable property like that."

Patrick stared at her. "Property?"

She groaned, rolled her eyes. "You really are some farmer bumpkin that got dragged into all this like the DBS said, aren't you?" She leaned over the desk. "The world after the apocalypse is a lot more complicated than it seems. Sure, someone with a gun can force and steal from people without one. But once you start talking about groups of people; tribes, towns, cities, then you have a whole new level. You need to protect them, provide them work and entertainment. I won't deny that The Syndicate is a bit brutal, using brute force when need be to get our way. But we built a town that offers an alternative to Assiniboia. One where if you are strong enough, you can make your own way. And the people that come here, thinking that they can gamble their pounds to make even more, dabble in chems and hookers and booze for a good time, well, it was their choice. But if they run up their tab too much and can't pay up, and aren't strong enough to make us see otherwise, then they have forfeited their rights, and deserve what happens to them.

"And here's the thing: Assiniboian's still come here, even after the DBS and the government rants about all that we do. Some are escaping your 'law and order,' some for a good time they can't find in Winnipeg or whatever small town is licking the boots of their oppressors. Hell, some of the best men and women I have left their impoverished lives in Winnipeg, the one that wasn't their fault, but because of some bastard in the government or a big business forced them out of work."

"But the people here don't get a chance to get out of that debt hole they made," Patrick said.

"Of course they do! They just need to be smart and strong enough to do it." The Boss sat in her chair, crossing her arms. "You have the strong ones go and fight in the Keystone Centre, and you have the smart ones skim a bit of money here and there when they work. I know some do it, but if they don't get caught, well they deserve it. But the ones that just accept their fate, the ones that don't even try to improve their standing, they deserve every bit of abuse and hatred The Syndicate directs on them."

Patrick listened to all this with a mixture of shock, resignation, and, much to his horror, approval. In some demented way, it kind of made sense. He heard stories of farmers who had to sell their land and leave because of one bad harvest and loan they couldn't repay. And what could they do about it? Well, unless they wanted to go to jail for the rest of their lives, nothing. They just packed up everything on a cart, and headed in whatever direction gave a chance at restarting their lives. And he remembered Atwood, and Vault H, and Turtle Town, and the injustice that reared its head over and over...

"So, Auxiliary," The Boss said, leaning forward in her chair again. "I'll make an offer for you. You can decline it if you wish, but why not join The Syndicate? Help make the wasteland and Assiniboia a better place, allow strength and smarts to overcome decadent and corrupt sleazebags that run the government and the greedy bastards that control the economy."

Patrick may have hesitated a moment, but only a moment. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why?" The Boss asked. "I'm curious."

"I know Assiniboia isn't the best thing in the world," he said. "I would be lying if I did. And you make a lot of good points about how you run Brandon. But Assiniboia is still my country, and I would rather fix it from the inside than force change unwillingly on the outside."

The Boss just stared at Patrick for a long time. A guard coughed outside. The faint hum of vacuum tubes powering a radio that played music at a reduced volume added to the silence.

"I can respect that," The Boss said. "I don't agree with you, but I can respect that." She smiled. "Here's hoping someday, maybe Assiniboia and The Syndicate could get along. Anyway, would you like a drink?"

Patrick shrugged his shoulders as The Boss reached into a mini-fridge behind her desk and pulled out a couple Nuka-Cola's, setting one in front of Patrick, before twisting the bottle cap off and tipping it to her lips, drinking half the bottle before coming back for air.

Patrick opened up his bottle and drank it. Though it was flat, and there was a faint tingle that Patrick was told was radiation, the ice cold Nuka Cola was still the best thing you could get in the wasteland. Patrick pocketed the bottle cap. He heard stories that bottle caps were used as money in parts of the Wasteland. It seemed silly when he thought about it, but he still kept the piece of pressed metal.

"I'm surprised you don't have anyone in here with you," Patrick said after he took a breath from drinking.

She glared at Patrick. "You don't think I can't handle myself?"

"No, no," Patrick said, quickly backtracking. "I meant that just… extra security for someone of your stature."

The Boss continued glaring at Patrick, before she gave a small "humph." "Well, I still have two associates just standing outside, and two dozen other men and women in this building along that will come at my beck and call. I think I can handle myself in my own office. So don't get any smart ideas."

She drank the rest of the Nuka Cola, before tossing it into a garbage can on the other side of the room, the glass bottle rattling against the other glass bottles in there.

"So, what brings you here to the Independent State of Brandon?" she asked, turning back to Patrick.

Patrick took a deep breath, swung his backpack of his back, and grabbed the letter inside it. It was bent now, and the edges of the letter were crumpled up, but it still clearly stated it was from Assiniboia, with the bison stamping down on the eagle in the corner, and to be hand-delivered to The Boss. Patrick handed it over to her, before slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He had it on so long at this point, he felt naked when he wasn't wearing it.

"So, Assiniboia wants to talk, huh?" she said, taking the letter from Patrick's hand. She grabbed a fierce looking combat knife on her desk, using it to open the envelope. "I had a feeling Winnipeg would be talking to me sooner or later."

"Why's that?" Patrick asked.

The Boss snorted. "Because you Assies are more worried about the Brotherhood of Steel than some 'gangsters' 200 kilometers straight west of your capital." She pulled the folded letter from the envelope, and started reading. "This is most likely your yellow livered Prime Minister begging me to…"

The silence in the room was deafening. "What?" Patrick asked.

The Boss blinked, using the knife still in her hand to trace the words on the letter to make sure she read them correctly. "You are shitting me."

"What?" Patrick asked. "What did it say?"

"Assiniboia is threatening me? How the fuck do they dare do that!" the Boss snapped, before driving the knife through the piece of paper, impaling it on her desk with a thud. "Turn over all Assiniboian citizens currently under our control and allow military units to secure the railway through the city? Not fucking likely!"

Patrick blinked. That was rather aggressive for the Dominion, after years of violence between Brandon and Assiniboia, many diplomatic crisis and two failed wars. What was happening now?

She turned to Patrick, taking a deep breath. "Well, I must say I'm surprised that Assiniboia is acting the way it does. Not going to do them any good. I'm not letting any RAMP or Army soldier from your precious Dominion so much as look at this city. And I sure as hell am not letting a single person who came to this city, lost the shirt off their back, and then agreed to sign a contract to stay here until they repay their debt just get up and go back without paying us back!"

"Okay," Patrick said after a moment of letting The Boss collect herself. He stood up and replaced his brahmin leather hat on his head. "My instructions are to return to Winnipeg and…"

"I don't think you heard me," The Boss said.

"What?"

"I'm not letting any RAMP member look at this city, Auxiliary." She glared, the ferocious predatory snarl making Patrick freeze. "Guards!"

The two Syndicate gangsters that brought Patrick to The Boss came barreling in, submachine guns at the ready.

"Take the Auxiliary here to experience the full breadth of our hospitality," she said, ice and venom dripping from her voice. "And make sure to take care of the Dragoon that came here with him."

"Yes Boss!" they both shouted at once, before quickly grabbing hold of Patrick, and dragged him out of the office, and most likely to a more uncomfortable place.

Patrick kicked and struggled as he was forcefully manhandled out the door and down the halls to the closest exit. The male Syndicate gangster let go of Patrick to grab the door, which was all the opportunity he needed.

He reached for the 10 mm pistol on his hip, pulled it up and shot the gangster in the back that was opening the door. He gave a startled cry, before falling down.

The female gangster let go of Patrick and pulled up her submachine gun, but before she could fire, Patrick had spun around and pulled the trigger twice. The two shots missed, but it made her duck, squeeze her trigger, and her submachine gun went off, but all the bullets harmlessly crashed into the floor.

Patrick pulled his 10 mm up again and fired twice more into the Syndicate gangster's chest. A gurgling gasp escaped her lips, followed by blood pouring out of her mouth, and she fell to the ground.

Patrick quickly grabbed both ownerless submachine guns, and crashed through the door out into the abandoned parking lot, and he sprinted east toward 18th Street.

"Hey!" a gruff voice shouted, but Patrick didn't stop. The Syndicate gangster lifted his submachine gun and fired. The bullet's cracked past Patrick's head, but the long range and Patrick's zigzag footwork ensured that none actually hit him.

Patrick ran up the embankment that lifted 18th Street up to meet Number 10 Highway that ran straight south of Brandon, sprinted across the empty pavement and slid down the dried dirt slope to the other side of the street.

To the south was the old Brandon Cemetery. The trees were mostly dead, and most of the headstone had long since crumbled or fallen over, which convinced Patrick that it would be a terrible place to hide. There was another large shopping center, the sign above it proclaiming it as a long vanished Dominion Hardware and Auto, was just to the other side. But instead of running into the front door, and who knew what would have been inside, Patrick quickly dodged around the back of the store, through dead bushes and detritus that had been there for decades. Old wooden pallets and crates were littered around the back, as well as old car parts that couldn't be salvaged and a few barrels in stagnant pools of brackish water that Patrick was sure wouldn't be healthy to even step within 100 feet.

Patrick slipped into a dark space behind a dumpster and beside an old ventilation unit, and stopped to catch his breath. He could hear some people shout and run past; the crack of bullets being fired echoing past the old, abandoned buildings, adding a chilling and terrifying atmosphere to the very deadly game of hide and seek Patrick had just started.

After fifteen minutes, when the sound of gunfire had died down and Patrick couldn't hear any more people shouting nearby, he let go of his breath, and leaned up against the old concrete wall.

He finally had a chance to look at the submachine guns that he had picked up. It was the standard 10mm variety that could be found anywhere in the Wasteland, but was still reliable and powerful. Patrick grinned, pulling out his 10mm pistol and slipping it into his backpack. While he had a decent amount of 10mm ammo at this point, he didn't have any extra magazines for the submachine gun.

"All well," he whispered to himself. "I'm sure I'll end up with more in the near future."

He slid down the wall, and stretched with a yawn. Now, to wait for night.

Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #849

Brandon, the Syndicate, and Assiniboia

Written May 3, 2109 by Former Mayor Joshua Lee

Way back in the times even just after the War of 2077, Brandon was actually a nice place. You wouldn't know it now, considering the people who are running it, but Brandon was, for a time, the best place in what was once known as Manitoba.

During the Annexation, the US Army had a presence in the city, but the commander of the garrison, Captain Jack Huerta, was a decent man, who tolerated no abuse or insults by his soldiers on the Canadians that they were nominally occupying, demanding that his men treat Brandonites and others in the region as if they were normal American citizens. This included paying full cost for anything they may buy and investigating any complaint made by those in Brandon against his troops, once even sending men to be court martialled for raping a young Brandon girl.

When the War of 2077 happened, Captain Huerta remained in Brandon to help the people, and with his soldiers, they protected the city and helped prevent it from falling into anarchy, and making sure everyone had food. His death from a raider in 2085 was a great tragedy, but his example made Brandon look more favorably to the Americans than those in what would be Assiniboia, and some inhabitants of the city can be traced back to the US Army soldiers that married into the community after the US collapsed. My family was one of them.

The divide between Assiniboia and Brandon would continue to grow over the years. Brandon, over 200 kilometers from Winnipeg, was always a very independent city, chafing that Winnipeg always received preferential treatment in the provincial government. They bounced back quickly after the immediate chaos of war, radiation, disease, and starvation, taking in refugees and providing a safe haven for many that came. In 2112, the Independent City of Brandon was declared to much rejoicing, and Brandon became a libertarian paradise: People prospered based on their smarts and skills, but all was welcome to do what they pleased: gambling, drugs and prostitution were allowed, and homosexual and transgender relationships were allowed, even welcomed.

But all was not well. Many small time criminals that were fleeing the RAMP in Winnipeg made their way to Brandon, and began to work together. In a year, they were soon controlling the entire drug, prostitution, and gambling operation in Brandon, and were growing more powerful. It was at this time that the talk of "The Syndicate" began to rumble through Brandon.

Several times in the past hundred years, Assiniboia asked Brandon to join them, but Brandon always refused. Brandon was not interested in claiming land or building their own nation like Assiniboia. The people were content with their simple way of life. But in 2177, after several failed crops and concern of violence with the Syndicate, the leaders of Brandon were more willing to join Assiniboia.

But before Brandon's leaders could do so, The Syndicate struck, killing hundreds and taking over the city. I was able to escape with my life and fled to Winnipeg. But the Syndicate was well armed, and two attempts by Assiniboia to destroy the Syndicate failed. The Syndicate turned Brandon into a hive of misery and hate, corrupting the ideals that Brandon held onto for so long to serve themselves: where smarts and strength could help you improve your life before, now brutality and cunning is a matter of life and death. Slavery is now a major part of the city, an evil that old Brandon would never allow before, along with blood sports, child labour, and many other evils that I can't bring myself to place on this page.

I'm now an old man, having lived over half my life in Winnipeg waiting to see Brandon free again. But now I know I will never see it again. I hope someday Brandon can be freed. I would love to see it become an independent city, but even part of Assiniboia would be better than nothing.

But I don't see that happening any time soon.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Patrick did his best to sneak past Syndicate guards and anyone else that might give him away, sticking to shadows and hiding in buildings ruined by time and the occasional bout of violence over the decades. As he slowly moved his way further east, the buildings became worse and worse for wear, entire blocks with nothing but rubble and dried grass. This wasn't just because it had been almost a century and a half since anything new had been built here, but even the few buildings that still stood had holes in the roof, missing doors, windows and even entire walls, just leaving small skeletal husks fit only for dogs, cats and birds.

By now Patrick was far enough to the east of The Syndicates HQ and the old stores and malls that lined 18th Street that he was in the infamous Rez. The majority of the residents of Brandon lived in squalor and a miserable existence in this area of the city. The few houses that still stood in this area were now home to a couple dozen people each, while tents and shanties made out of whatever scrap could be found to house more, though it was clear that not everyone that lived here could be housed.

Dirty men and women, most wearing little more than rags and whatever scraps of fabric they could find to stitch together, huddled together around fires or in small groups. Babies cried all around Patrick, and everyone looked at Patrick with blank eyes. Some tried to mutter a plea for help, some just looked away, but most just stared at the man in decent, if dirty clothes, and with only a thin unshaven beard and dust from traveling and not a wretched existence.

Patrick couldn't look around him. He had heard the stories of Brandon, and how the people lived here, the horrors and trials everyone went through, but even those stories seemed to have been censored, polished to not show the true horror of what actually happened in The Rez.

A young man wearing the battered but mostly intact black suit that at one point would have belonged to a Syndicate gangster with a red armband approached Patrick. His hair was dirty black, with high cheekbones and a brown skin that wasn't simply from a lifetime in the sun. His eyes were weary, but seemed to flash with anger and righteousness, and those eyes were what made Patrick stop, more than the gun or the way he held himself amongst the masses.

"You aren't from around here," he said.

"You could say that, yes," Patrick said. "What's your name?"

"The people here call me Running Eagle," he said, waving a hand over the town around him.

"That's an interesting name," Patrick said, after he gave his own.

"My ancestors would have used their own language back in the Old Times. But in your White Language, that is what I would be. But even I don't know the old words anymore."

"So you are an Indian?"

The man didn't flinch, but Patrick could tell that struck a chord, and regretted it. "We call ourselves First Nations in your language, though we have many names to classify ourselves," he said.

"So… you're with Riel's Army then?" Patrick asked, suspicious. "What are they doing down here?"

"So what if I am? Are you just trying to get yourself shot?" Running Eagle barked, neither confirming nor denying that he was, but answering the question either way. "Besides, at least they have always stood up to the Syndicate, unlike fucking Asiniboia."

"Alright, I'm sorry," Patrick replied, raising his hands.. He had heard stories of Indians fighting the cowboys, and thought they were borderline savages back then. But he never met one face to face, as few lived down in the Melita area. But the news stories of the actions Riel's Army, with the hideaway up north close to the Glacier, always got news coverage whenever something blew up or a soldier up north was killed. Today was just one surprise after another it seemed…

"But you are from Assiniboia, right?" he said. "And you aren't one of the Luckless, are you?"

Patrick thought about it. "I was nearly killed by The Syndicate, so does that count?"

"You must have made them angry." Running Eagle smiled. "Good."

"Good?"

"Yes. Because myself and many other of my people and some of the Luckless whites that lost it all here in Brandon want to fight back and overthrow The Syndicate."

"And join Assiniboia?" Patrick asked. "I had heard there was a resistance movement that wanted to join the Dominion."

Running Eagle shrugged. "Maybe. I personally say no, because of what Assiniboia has done to my people, way back when it was called Canada. But most of the people here are from Assiniboia, or have relatives in your country, so maybe they will want to join. I can't say right now which will work or not."

Patrick nodded. "Fair enough. But how do you plan to do that?"

"I don't know. I'm not a planner; I'm a warrior. But if you come with me, I can take you to some people that organize us all."

Running Eagle turned around and began walking through the makeshift town, and Patrick followed. The smells, the human suffering and the agony that was all around him made Patrick want to pull The Boss out and show her the agony her ideology was causing. Or, maybe, just shoot her. Of course she would say these poor souls deserved it, then shoot a couple and said they deserved that to.

He might have partially agreed with her before, but now, seeing the full extent of the pain The Boss caused, made Patrick hate that he even considered, if just for a moment, about joining her.

They walked into an old school, which seemed to have been built from similar blueprints from the Waskada School, only upsized for a larger population. It was even built from the same red bricks and concrete stucco as the old building in Waskada, complete with the two-story gymnasium.

Inside, the building was just as ill kept as the one he fought through in Waskada only this time there wouldn't be booby traps or armed raiders camping inside. It functioned as a community center of sorts. In a couple classrooms, women taught little kids how to read and write, while one burly man with a limp overlooked a class of boys and girls working out with makeshift equipment. In a cafeteria, food was still being served, only that it wasn't exactly filling or as healthy as it would have been when this served hundreds of kids.

"Doesn't The Syndicate prevent you guys from doing this?" Patrick asked Running Eagle.

"They rarely come here, so as far as we know, they don't care. If they do come here, they come in large groups, because even they know desperate, unarmed people will mob and kill them any chance they get."

Patrick had a feeling something like that was how Running Eagle was wearing the clothes he was now, even if it hung off his frame like a flag.

They tuned down another hallway, which lead to a staircase. Running Eagle took the flight of stairs down, and Patrick followed. The stairs were narrow and the concrete was crumbling, but it was still structurally intact. At least, Patrick hoped so.

The basement of the school had an old furnace and stacks of old boxes, broken desks and tools that a custodian would have made use of over a century ago. The tools were still used today, but more to keep the building from falling down, and repairing and making items that the folks here would be otherwise unable to get ahold of.

There was only one other man at the time, sleeping on a cot on the far side of the room. A table full of dirty dishes, crumpled papers, half full bottles of whiskey and vodka, and an old road map of Brandon with pencil and pen marks to point out where The Syndicate maintained its control.

"Reverend!" Running Eagle shouted, startling the sleeping man awake.

"What? Who? Where?" the man sprung up, a pistol in hand and pointing at Patrick and Running Eagle. Patrick took a leap back in surprise, but Running Eagle maintained his composure. The man was skinny, and the leather jacket he wore hung loose all over him. His wrinkles and thinning dark hair with streaks of gray showed he had to be in the late 50s or early 60s. But the speed that he moved, and the alertness of his body, showed that he still had some fight in him.

"Damnit," the man named Reverend muttered, pushing himself out of the cot. "You know I can't sleep worth a fuck."

"I'm sorry," Running Eagle said, though Patrick was sure there wasn't much sympathy in his voice. "But I have a guy from Assiniboia who's on the run from The Syndicate."

"Well that's nice," Reverend said, shaking his head and reaching for a bottle of vodka and swilling it. "You know we have people like that all the time."

"But…" Running Eagle started, but Reverend just held up his hand as he upended the bottle, his Adam's apple pumping up and down before the entire bottle was empty.

"What's your name?" Reverend asked, pointing at Patrick.

"Patrick Morrison."

"That's nice," Reverend said. "But unless you came down from God, we don't…"

"Also known as The Auxiliary," Patrick interrupted. He had to admit, the name was growing on him now.

Running Eagle blinked in surprise, and Reverend stopped mid sentence, his eye going wide. "You're shitting me."

Patrick reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his RAMP Auxiliary badge, and flashed it at Reverend.

"Well shit," the old man said. "Well, maybe not from heaven, but the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police has got to be the next best place."

"I was assigned to deliver a letter to The Boss. And let's say she didn't take the content of it too well," Patrick said, before explaining what was in the letter.

Reverend grunted. "So Assiniboia finally got some backbone, eh? To bad they didn't just steamroll through this place. I honestly have no idea why they don't just come here."

"Because they underestimate The Syndicate," Running Eagle said. "The last war, they sent like a thousand soldiers, under a general that didn't know what the hell he was doing. From what I heard, he was court martialed and sent out into Ontario..." Running Eagle let those words hang in the air.

"And now they are scared," Reverend said. "But whatever, that's the past." He climbed up from his bunk, and walked over to a table at the edge of the room and turned to Patrick. "So what now?"

"I honestly have no idea. I was just sent here alone, and no one told me if there was an army or anything."

"Well shit," Reverend sighed, before looking down on the map. "But whatever. And since you are here, and since I know your reputation, I have a job for you."

"What?" Patrick asked.

"You can take it if you want, because, well, it's fucking dangerous."

"What?" Patrick asked again.

"But if you could, that would be great…"

"What the hell is it?" Patrick shouted.

Reverend blinked. "Well, the leader of our little band of merry men, Deer Wing, is currently locked up in The Asylum. If we could break her out, that would give the fighters a boost of morale. Hell, we could use it. After that, we'll figure out where to go from there."

Patrick thought about it, looking down at the map and seeing the red circle and the scrawled words 'The Asylum' under it. "How heavily fortified is the place?"

"It's got it's own wall around the place. Dozens of guards, all of them heavily armed. But once you get inside, you shouldn't have a problem. It's getting out again that will be a pain in the ass, since by that time the entire city could be alerted."

"Is there a way to prevent that from happening?" Patrick asked.

"Could create a diversion," Running Eagle said. "If it's to free Deer Wing, I'm sure I will have all the volunteer's I need."

Reverend grunted. "Well… I don't want to just throw lives away like that," he said. "We don't have the firepower to stand up to The Syndicate, and we will need everyone we can for the big fight in the future. But freeing Deer Wing will be a huge boost, so anything we can do to help you free her, we will do."

Patrick nodded. "Then you better. And I will do my best to get her out."

"That's all we need." Running Eagle said. The Reverend grabbed another liquor bottle and began to drink some more.

The Asylum was not a good place.

If ever Patrick was ever going to get an award for the biggest understatement ever, then that would have won hands down.

The four story red brick building had been a mental hospital at one point, hence the name that The Syndicate still used. However, instead of curing those with mental illness, now The Asylum was a prison, and one that made the conditions that the residents of the Rez would have found utterly abhorrent. The front courtyard, which before the War of 2077 would have been nicely maintained grass, flowerbeds and dirt paths, was now all dried and cracked ground, used by The Syndicate as an exercise court. Off to one side, however, was a wooden platform with a rope and a trap door, making Patrick shudder. All around the building was a wall of Old World cars, stacked three or four high in spots. Patrick was impressed, because it wasn't like they would have been able to drive them up over each other to make the wall. Must have been a lot of work.

Patrick had managed to get his hands on a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight from a poor sod in The Rez that had nothing else but the gun. He had practiced with his old rifle way back when he was in the Militia and on the farm, so he knew how it worked. However, he had never been a good shot, and was even rustier now, so he hoped whatever he might have to shoot would be considerate enough to just wander around in a set path, and stop occasionally to look at some random spot so he could take a potshot or two.

Patrick had climbed his way up on top of the car wall, hiding in whatever nook and cranny he could find, careful to not make any sounds, which wasn't that easy in the moonless night. This was the third car stacked up on each other, and Patrick had snuck into the cab through the long gone glass window. The seat cushions had not fully rotted away, and there was only a few springs that poked out, giving him a somewhat comfortable and hidden place to work from. He peaked over the edge of the door slowly, making sure that no one could see him. There were only a two guards as far as he could tell, unless there were more inside or around the other side of the building. But if he could take these two out quickly, then they wouldn't have time to warn anyone else, and he might be able to sneak into The Asylum with a minimum of fuss.

He rested the barrel of the gun on the car door of the Highwayman that was his sniper point. He carefully lined up the sights, the cross hair pointed right at the head of the guard leaning up against the brick wall. Patrick took a deep breath; let his heart rate slow, before he pulled the trigger.

The blast of gunpowder and fire was a shock in the quiet night, and it made Patrick cringe slightly. He looked down the sights again, to see that the target of his was on the ground. Patrick smiled to himself, before he saw the man twitch and get up on his knee, his submachine gun in hand.

"Damnit," Patrick muttered, quickly pulling the bolt back and then forward again to put another bullet into the chamber. He lined up again and fired. This time the Syndicate gangster ducked when he heard the shot, and the bullet landed in the ground with a small thud.

"Shit!" Patrick swore, working the bolt again. Third time's a charm?

He aimed and fired again, but this time the gangster was ready, and he ducked around a corner, yelling something to his comrades.

"Fuck!" Patrick cursed himself, but by the time he had another round chambered, there were now four more guards, all of them looking for the mysterious sniper.

"Well, time for Plan B," he muttered, and reached into the pocket of his jacket. The other present he got from the resistance fighters was a couple grenades. This should get at least one of them!

He pulled the pin, and tossed it in the general direction of three Syndicate gangsters milling around. The bomb hit the ground a few feet short of where Patrick had intended, and exploded. The man closest to the grenade went down with a shriek, but by now the three others had figured out where Patrick was, and began to unload their submachine guns in his general direction, making their way to the Highwayman that Patrick was using.

He could hear the bullets tink and clatter off the steel, the 10mm rounds harmlessly bouncing off the sides of the car. Patrick thought that he would be safe here for a while.

Then he heard a bullet hit something that didn't sound quite like metal. He looked to the front of the car, to see a couple flames licking up from the dash.

"Oh crap!" Patrick exclaimed, sliding his way out of the front seat of the car, before sitting up and grabbing the door handle for the door facing away from The Asylum. He yanked it, but the door was rusted shut. More and more flames came out of the dash, smoke pouring out of the hood.

"Fuck!" Patrick said, leaping out of the window he had snuck in before. He was well over ten feet in the air, and didn't have time to roll himself into a ball or brace himself for the landing on the ground.

"Oomf!" he cried out as he belly-flopped on the hard ground, knocking the wind out of him. He rolled over, seeing that the car was on fire. He crawled away with a groan.

KABOOM! The car he was in exploded in a ball of white light, making the night turn into day, and then turned up the sunlight a few thousand points higher. Patrick ducked down, closing his eyes tight, but even that wasn't enough to make his vision turn bright white. He carefully looked over his shoulder to see that the Highwayman he had been in was gone. There was barely any scrap metal from the explosion of the dormant nuclear engine that powered the beast of a car. Patrick could see the cars around the Highwayman were also on fire. Patrick gasped, before groaning in pain as his chest complained. He scurried further down the hill.

KABOOM! KABOOM! KABOOM! Explosion after explosion, a deadly irradiated domino effect of nuclear powered cars, continued for what felt like forever. Patrick thought it was the end of the world again, though he knew the actual nuclear weapons were much more powerful than what he was experiencing right now.

After a time, when his hearing returned enough that all he could here was the crackle of flames and the clatter of metal pieces that somehow survived the chain reaction of explosions falling on the ground, Patrick finally stood up and walked to the scene of devastation.

For one thing, there was no wall anymore. There were the hulks of a few tough steel frames and chassis around, but they were not in any semblance of order anymore.

The three guards that had tried to shoot at Patrick were also there, though the flash burns on their skin, the lack of clothing on the side of body that faced the explosion, and the fire that consumed the rest of them, was more than enough indication that they were no longer among the living.

The Geiger counter on Patrick's Pip-Boy crackled to life at all the radiation that was now around Patrick. He knew he shouldn't go through where the fires had been, but there wasn't any other way to get to The Asylum. Patrick sprinted straight through the hellhole he was partially responsible for creating, his boots crunching on the ground like he was walking over glass. He didn't take time to stop and look at the dead Syndicate guards. Even if their weapons were still useful, they would be so irradiated by now that just looking at them might give Patrick cancer, if not acute radiation poisoning.

After the Pip-Boy stopped ticking, Patrick didn't slow down, this time racing for the brick building. He reached the door, and leaned against the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath. He had never been a sprinter, and he was surprised he made ran the 200 yards from the other side of where the wall was to here as fast as he did. Adrenaline will do that to you.

Patrick pulled out his submachine gun, slinging the hunting rifle over his back where he could reach it again if necessary, and walked through the door into the building.

Inside, it looked like a hospital, one that hadn't been used for a very long time. A few lights shone cones of light on the ground, but they were prone to flickering, and not all of them were on. The area's it did illuminate was broken linoleum tiles, peeling light green and white paint, and the twisted, ruined apparatus of steel beds, wheelchairs, iron lungs, trolleys and who knew what else.

Patrick could feel ice running down his back, the other-world feeling of a run down hospital with moaning and clanging somewhere within the dimly lit and haunting building.

He could hear footsteps all around, most moving quickly, and muffled shouts of distraught and anger reaching his ears. It wouldn't have been easy to miss the bright lights outside a few moments before, so everyone must be wondering what just happened.

Patrick walked down one wing, glancing into the rooms. All these rooms were empty, mostly used as storage. One floor had collapsed down before Patrick reached the end of the hallway, forcing him to turn around go back the way he came. Patrick found some stairs, and he carefully went up. He could still hear the footsteps, but he couldn't detect a pattern to any that he heard.

He crouch walked to the next hallway from the stairwell, and looked around. It was a T intersection of a hallway, and he could see the backside of a rather small and skinny Syndicate gangster, looking back and forth in the opposite direction from Patrick, which was just the way he wanted. He snuck up to the gangster, pulling out his .44 Magnum.

He got as close behind the nervously shuffling guard, and jumped up, his free hand clasping the mouth of the gangster, the revolver pointed at his head. Patrick carefully backed up, dragging the surprised and startled smaller man with him.

"Now listen closely. Don't you dare scream, or your brains are splattered over that wall. Got it?" Patrick whispered into the gangster's ear. He nodded slowly.

"Good. Now, do you know where is Deer Wing?" Patrick asked. The gangster nodded again.

"Alright. Now, I will uncover your mouth so you can tell me. If you scream, it's over. Got it?" The Syndicate member nodded again.

Patrick removed his hand. "Fourth floor, down the left hall from the stairs," the gangster said. "Always two guards next to her door."

Patrick smiled, covering the man's mouth again. "Your help is much appreciated." Patrick quietly spun the revolver on his finger until he had hold of the barrel of the gun, and he brought it up like a club. "Good night."

Patrick brought the butt of his .44 Magnum down on the gangster's head. The man jerked, then went lip, knocked unconscious.

Patrick carefully laid the body of the gangster down, pulling out a handkerchief and the rope from when he pulled out Colonel Januet from the hole at Camp Shilo, and quickly tied up the man's hands behind his back and gagged the unconscious gangster. Even if he woke up, he couldn't easily call any help. He also took the man's submachine gun and all the extra ammo he had in his pockets, and put them into his own.

Patrick cut off the rope that he didn't use and put it back in his backpack, and then dashed back to the stairs.

Patrick crept up the two flights of stairs, remaining as quiet as he could. He got to the fourth floor, and peeked around the corner. One gangster stood outside a door on the far end, which must have been the one with Deer Wing. Patrick grinned, and brought up his .44 Magnum, aiming it at the Syndicate man about twenty feet away.

"Hey!" a man shouted behind Patrick, making him spin around. The other Syndie that was supposed to be guarding Deer Wing had walked to the end of the hall to the nearest window to see what all the bright flashes outside had been. He brought up his submachine gun, and let loose a burst of fire.

One bullet bit into Patrick's left shoulder, but the other bullet's missed. Patrick cried out in pain, but growled and brought up his own weapon, and unloaded all six shots of his revolver in the gangster's chest and stomach. The gangster shook and fell over from the hits, and fell into a pool of his own blood on the floor.

Patrick slumped against the wall, the pain from the bullet that hit now pushing against the adrenaline in his system. He clenched and unclenched his left hand, and was glad to see that all his fingers worked.

By now the other gangster had run down the hall, shooting where Patrick was. Patrick didn't have time to reload his .44, so holstered it and pulled out the submachine gun he had picked up a few minutes ago, and sprayed bullets down the hall, making the gangster's duck and flatten himself against the wall. Patrick peeked around, but this time the gangster fired full auto, emptying his clip in seconds. Not a single bullet hit Patrick.

As the gangster swore and reloaded, Patrick pushed himself up the wall, and spun around, firing at the gangster. However the man was a bit too spry, and ducked down, and all the bullets from Patrick missed as well.

"Stay still!" Patrick cried out, hiding behind the wall again. The gangster had got the next clip from his submachine gun in, and pulled the trigger. A three bullet burst came, but then the gun went silent.

Patrick peeked around the corner again, this time to see the gangster still standing, but this time with a triangular shaped piece of metal on a wooden stick poking out the front of his chest. He looked down at it, brought a finger to poke at the red colored metal, before falling over dead.

Behind him, with a cocked bow and arrow, stood a lean young woman. Her skin color was a bit lighter than Running Eagle, but the long braided black hair, high cheekbones and fiery eyes otherwise made them look like twins. She was wearing a homemade Brahmin leather jacket and skirt with dull colored beads to decorate it, forming patterns and designs Patrick couldn't quite make out in the dark.

"Are you Deer Wing?" Patrick asked, holding his hands up.

"What's it to you?" the young woman spat back.

"Well, I was here to break you out."

Deer Wing looked up and over Patrick, before lowering her bow and arrow. "Did you make the cars explode outside?"

"Indirectly, yeah," Patrick admitted. "Didn't mean to, but it worked out in the end, right?"

"Except that every Syndicate bastard in the city will be heading here right now!" she exclaimed. "Let's get out of here." She paused only long enough to pull the arrow from the dead gangster and placed it back in her quiver, before she sprinted ahead of Patrick and down the stairs. Patrick just sighed and followed after. There would be time for explanations later, Patrick hoped.

Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #398

Riel's Army Claims Responsibility for UAR Train Attack That Killed 25 (DBS, March 8, 2201)

The terrorist group calling themselves Riel's Army has taken responsibility for the attack on the PorLaPra-Winnipeg train that exploded and derailed a week ago, which resulted in the deaths of 25 people, including 13 children that were on a school trip to the capital.

RAMP spokesperson Sergeant Kelly McBrant said that the RAMP Anti-Terrorism Unit was still investigating.

"At this point, we are still investigating the leads that we can find. These terrorists that killed innocent children will be brought to justice," Sergeant McBrant said.

Riel's Army, a group of dissatisfied Indians who claim that they are trying to undo the centuries of discrimination of the white man to the Indian, often targets the Unified Assiniboian Railway, due to the trains historical importance for the expansion of European settlers into western Canada. However, they normally avoid civilian casualties, so this attack can be seen as an escalation.

This most recent attack has lead to renewed calls to remove the bronze statue of Louis Riel at the Legislative Building. The Metis leader who helped bring Manitoba into Canadian Confederation in 1870 but also lead the 1869-70 Red River Rebellion and the 1885 Northwest Rebellion against the old Dominion of Canada has been a divisive figure in the past few decades in Assiniboia, but the Dominion government has refused to take it down so far.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Getting out of the Asylum was easier than getting in. Well, at least until they got to the front yard.

Deer Wing slid to a stop as soon as she saw a dozen black suited men standing outside, looking at the wreckage of the walls and the front doors of the Asylum.

"Can't go out that way," she muttered. "Unless you want to be a human pincushion."

"No, I'm good for today," Patrick said, pointing to the bloody spot on his shoulder.

"Well that's taking one for the team," Deer Wing said. "No matter, there's other ways out. Let's go."

Deer Wing zigzagged around old beds and carts as Patrick followed behind.

"So how did you get a bow and arrow in here?" Patrick asked.

"I made it. I always had some extra string on me, and I found a decent piece of wood one day, and fashioned it myself. Same with the arrows," she said, pointing to the homemade quiver on her back.

"Isn't it a bit old fashioned Patrick asked?"

"Maybe, but it works, right?" she shot back. Patrick couldn't argue with that.

Deer Wing led Patrick to the back door of the building, ducking before the reached the door and walking the last few steps hunched over so no one outside could see in. Patrick could hear a couple voices outside, but it sounded like only a couple. Well, he sure could go guns blazing out here, he thought.

"Want a gun?" Patrick asked, offering the other Submachine gun that Patrick had been saving. Deer Wing looked at the gun for a moment, and reluctantly took it.

Patrick took a deep breath and slowly stood up. There was only two guys, and they both stood off to the side, one casually leaning against an old barrel, while the other lit a cigarette, and puffed on it.

"I bet one of those old cars finally just went off," one of them said.

"You seriously believe they could just go off like that?" the other replied.

"It was designed that way. Would blow up after so long, so that people would get new ones. Designed obsolescence, I think they called it."

"Then why would it go off now? A hundred and forty-one years later?"

The first guy just grunted, and shut up.

Patrick nodded down to Deer Wing, who drew another arrow on her bow. Patrick reached for the door, slowly twisted the handle, then threw it open.

The guards never had a chance. Patrick fired two bursts of his submachine gun at the first guard, while Deer Wing had pulled and let loose an arrow straight into the eye's of the other guard. Both men screamed bloody murder and fell down.

"Alright, let's get out of here!" Deer Wing said, sprinting straight ahead.

"Where?"

"Just follow me!" she said, and Patrick decided not to argue, and did so.

They crashed through some old dead trees and bushes, before diving in a small ditch a few feet away from that. Patrick squawked as his foot went into a radgopher hole. Deer Wing put her finger to her mouth, and Patrick did his best to remain quiet as he pulled his leg out of the annoying critter's home.

Some guards came racing around the back, noticing their comrades dead.

"She's escaped!" one of them exclaimed.

"Oh fuck," another swore. "This is not good."

"What do we do?" the first said. "We can't tell The Boss, we'll all be tossed to the Yao Gui in the Keystone Center!"

"Shut up," the second said. "They can't have gotten that far. We can find her."

"Then maybe we could finally use her," one of the guys grunted.

There was a gunshot, and a scream of pain. "Like fucking hell you will!" a female Syndie guard said. "The Boss made it perfectly clear that she is not putting up with that, got it!"

"Yes ma'am!" the other Syndicalists bellowed.

The gangsters split up, one heading along the east side of the building, one heading west, and one heading north, straight to Patrick and Deer Wing.

Patrick pulled out his submachine gun, but Deer Wing put a hand on it, shaking her head. She put her finger to her lips again, and snuck away, the dead grass and leafless branches not making a sound.

The guard walked up to the bushes, only a few feet from where Patrick hid, and looked around. He had a flashlight, and pulled it up, switching it on and scanning it through the bushes, staring to Patrick's left and going right. Patrick ducked his head down, pulling his hat down over his face, hoping the lump of his backpack wouldn't be seen. This is what he was going to get for being a pat rack, wasn't it?

The light washed over Patrick, but continued on. Then it scanned back the other way. Patrick screwed his eyes shut, muttering to himself. If only he had been able to sneak into the Asylum without anyone knowing, if only he the RAMP hadn't sent him here, if only Zach hadn't been taken…

The flashlight suddenly went haywire. There was a strangled gurgle of blood filling someone's throat, followed by a heavy thud, the body of the gangster landing inches from Patrick's face.

Patrick carefully looked over, seeing the blank, empty stare of a dead man, blood dripping from his mouth and a cut along his throat. He pushed himself up, and saw Deer Wing, a bloody knife in one hand, her bow in the other, and fierce hatred in her face.

"There, let's get the hell out of here," she whispered, pointing to the car wall that ran around the Asylum, and hadn't been touched by the explosions earlier that evening. Patrick nodded, and the two jogged toward the wall.

They didn't go up to the wall itself, as there were most likely still guards manning the posts. But they followed it south along First Street until the reached the Assiniboine River.

"Good at swimming?" Deer Wing asked, looking at the cold, rushing water.

Patrick shrugged. "Been a while, but I think I can handle it."

The two walked into the water, Patrick nearly crying out as the freezing cold water quickly rose up over his ankles and touched his bare skin. Only the fear of being found by a Syndicate guard along the wall stifled that response.

Deer Wing must have been laughing at the crazy Assiniboian, and easily slipped into the water, barely a ripple appearing in the water as she began to breaststroke her way across the River.

Patrick wasn't as graceful, the heavy backpack and years without practice catching up to him. The cold water did nothing to help. The point of the river was fairly narrow though, so after only five or so minutes of increasingly frigid, body straining effort, Patrick managed to reach the other side.

Deer Wing stood on the shore. If she was frozen or sore, she didn't show it. The First Nation's girl offered her hand to Patrick. The sorry Auxiliary that clasped her hand looked more like a dog or a Brahmin that had just been doused in gallons of water, pitiful and whimpering in shock and surprise. His teeth chattered involuntarily, his body shook with no outside motivation and his muscles ached.

"Wasn't that bad, huh?"

"Can we just go lay down now?" Patrick asked.

Deer Wing led Patrick along some back alleys and streets that were full of rubble and overgrown by brown grass, but eventually they arrived back at The Rez, and the cluster of tents, shanties and rundown houses that housed the impoverished and unlucky residents of Brandon.

The few people still up this early in the morning immediately recognized Deer Wing. At first the people that noticed were surprised she was back some standing up and coming forward to get a better view to make sure it wasn't a trick or anything being played on them.

"Is that really you?" an old woman asked.

"Are you back forever?" a young boy, not much older than 8 asked.

"Yes, I'm back, and I'm here to led us to freedom, to victory over the oppressors, and equality for all!" Deer Wing shouted, pumping her fist in the air.

The small crowd cheered as Deer Wing spoke. More and more people crowded around her, the formally morose and downtrodden now upbeat and excited that their leader and hero was back. Cheers and songs drew more people out of their homes from sleep to join in the increasingly raucous and excited party that developed.

A threadbare blanket was wrapped around Patrick, offering some warmth to the still wet and freezing man. He pulled it close around him, and tried to thank whoever it was that gave it to him, but whoever it was, they got lost in the crowd.

Reverend and Running Eagle appeared in the crowd. Reverend was celebrating as hard as anybody, if the bottle of vodka in his hand was any indication. Running Eagle was still straight faced, but it was clear that the impromptu party was having an effect on him.

"Good job Auxiliary," he said, punching Patrick's shoulder. "You've done a lot to help."

"What about the diversion?" Patrick asked, his teeth still chattering as he spoke.

"We were about to attack, but the explosions at the Asylum kinda undercut us," he said.

"That was partially my fault," Patrick admitted. "I will say, nuclear powered cars were a great way to deal with a bunch of gangsters."

Running Eagle smirked. "A lot of the Syndicate bastards though ran away, thinking that they were going to be attacked next. I know some did head up there, but apparently you managed to avoid it if you have gotten back here."

Patrick wanted to shrug and say something, but a yawn came out of his mouth instead. Running Eagle nodded, and guided Patrick back to the old school and to a bed somewhere within the building, Patrick had no idea where it was. But it was somewhat intact, somewhat quiet, and somewhat comfortable. Patrick fell asleep anyway.

Patrick was woken up by a steady, but distant drumming and patter. At first he thought it might have been rain, the first rain in a while. But it was too distant, and not hard enough.

Patrick sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He stretched and yawned, some joint's popping into place as he grunted and groaned. The mattress he was given was old, moldy and wasn't comfortable at all, which didn't help his body. He glanced out the window, to see that it the sun wasn't even peaking over the horizon. Patrick grumbled, considering his options of maybe going back to sleep for at least a few more hours. Who knew that adventuring and being all heroic and stuff could be so damn tiring?

But then something clicked in his mind. That was gunfire. A lot of it.

Patrick jumped out of bed, grabbing his backpack, .44 Magnum and submachine gun, and dashing out the door and down the hallway to the nearest door marked "EXIT."

Patrick emerged out one of the secondary exits of the old school that stretched out into a playground with rusty slides, broken swings and other aged and weathered equipment for youngsters several generations ago to play with.

Patrick followed the sound of gunfire, leading him to the northwest, around the other side of the school. Patrick quickly ran around the side of the building.

It was carnage now. Patrick could see smoke billowing out in multiple places around The Rez, and now he could hear high-pitched screams of infants and agonized hollers of pain and panic from both men and women, with the constant firing of bullet's providing a deadly chorus to the whole ghastly musical.

Patrick ran to the nearest fire. Around the corner, three Syndicate men in their black suits had grabbed hold of a young woman. Two were holding her down, while the other was working the zipper and belt on his pants and walking towards her.

Patrick could feel his face burning. He had seen people die in increasingly horrible ways and some people who called themselves "civilized" doing downright barbarous things, and then justify it.

But this crossed every line.

A burst of submachine bullets to the back of the would rapist ensured he would never go through with it. The other two men spun around, letting go of the young woman to grab their own weapons. Patrick fired two more burst at the man on the left, then another on the right, making them all fall down, their cries of pain and agony joining the chorus throughout The Rez.

Patrick walked over to the woman, barely 20 years old, as dirty as everyone else who lived in The Rez, rolled up in the fetal position and crying softly. Patrick rested a hand on her shoulder, making the girl freeze, whimpering softly.

"You're safe now," Patrick said. "Better get out of here though."

The girl looked up to Patrick, managed to get a "Thank you" past her lips, before she stood up and sprinted toward the school.

Patrick turned around, and dashed forward to the battle. He confronted two more Syndicate fighters, one armed with a flamethrower that he was using to set the wooden shanties and shacks on fire. The sound of the volatile chemical being set on fire and spit out, catching everything in the range of the gun on fires, made Patrick think of mythical dragons, rampaging through villages and slaughtering everything in their path. The head and hands of the person manning the flamethrower were hidden under a fire-retardant gas mask, but the man (or woman, Patrick couldn't tell) was still wearing the black suit and tie uniform of The Syndicate. Through the rubber and flame, the Syndicate guy with the flamethrower laughed in gleeful pleasure as he set everything around them in flames, making Patrick shudder at what person could take pleasure in that. What dreams of chronic and sustained cruelty…

The second man noticed Patrick, and he fired at Patrick with his submachine gun. Patrick ducked behind a rusted piece of metal, the bullets pinging off like metal rain.

Patrick poked his gun over the top of his protective shelter and sprayed it around wildly, making the Syndicate gangster swear out loud and duck down.

"Pyro! Help me out here, will ya?" he shouted, before spraying more bullets in Patrick's direction to dissuade him from poking his head up.

The Syndicate gangster with the flamethrower turned around, and with a muffled squeal of pleasure raced toward where Patrick was, pulling the trigger on his flamethrower and setting the dried grass, rubble and wood all around on fire. Patrick tried to back up out of the ring of fire he found himself in, but the second Syndicate guy fired into the inferno, making Patrick wince.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Patrick shouted, drowned out in the roaring fire all around him. He jumped up quickly, firing his submachine gun in a long burst at the direction of both of the Syndicate gangsters, until it clicked empty.

They both flinched and ducked, letting up their assault, so Patrick used the opportunity to escape from the fiery hellhole he found himself in. He managed to find the ruins of an old house, which he raced toward. The edge of his pants caught on fire, and Patrick, hopping toward the building, used his other hand to put it out.

The second Syndie managed to recover and fired a burst toward Patrick. Despite the rather long range, one of the bullet's caught Patrick in the lower leg, making Patrick cry out in agony as he crumpled, just short of what would have been safe cover. He looked down to see the sickening sight of blood ooze out and soak his pant leg. Patrick tried to move, to shuffle toward cover, but his leg refused to cooperate, and his entire body was wracked in pain.

Patrick turned around to see the second gangster fiddle with reloading his gun, while the Pyro ran toward Patrick, the long, black charred end menacingly pointed at Patrick.

Patrick didn't have time to reload his submachine gun, so he flipped it in his hand, and used all his strength to toss it at the Syndicate arson. The gun caught the Pyro in the face, making it stagger and shudder in surprise at the blow to the head. The second gangster was racing up, trying to save his comrade and deal with the bastard that was firing on them.

While Pyro was struggling to regain his balance, Patrick reached down for his .44 Magnum, and fired his gun at the menacing flamethrower.

The first shot got Pyro in the left shoulder, the next in his right arm, and he let go of the nozzle of the gun. The third shot hit the tank that held the flamethrower fuel.

It was an impressive sight, as the thin metal of the tank, most likely made some time before the War of 2077 and weakened and rusted in the 140 years since, erupted at the spark it was given. The pressurized fluid shot out in all directions, and caught everything on fire. The suit the two Syndicate thugs were wearing simultaneously caught on fire, making the second guy scream as his flesh and clothes began to burn. He dropped and rolled, but the flamethrower's fuel wasn't designed to be put out so easily.

The Pyro was disoriented by all the fire around him, whimpering at the pain in his arms. This gave Patrick enough time to catch his breath and lift himself up, firing two shots into the Pyro's head, piercing the fireproof rubber. The arsonist screamed for a moment, before the sounds became more mumbled, something Patrick was unable to understand through the gasmask, and the lifeless body fell to the ground.

Patrick sighed, and leaned up against the half ruined wall of the house behind him, catching his breath in relief. The crackle of flames, the hiss of the tank that was pierced, the smell of burnt flesh all made Patrick shudder and nearly throw up, but he restrained his gag reflex.

Patrick got back up, wincing in pain. He reached into his pocket, grabbed a stimpack, and jabbed it into his thigh. After a moment, the pain went away, and with a sigh, he went to pick up the unused submachine gun magazines, and reloading his own weapons, before he went back to see what was going on.

He didn't confront anymore Syndicate guys, though a lot of those living in The Rez seemed to run by him in the opposite direction, while a few with their own guns raced forward. Patrick had no idea who was winning this battle, though no matter who won, The Rez would be nearly impossible to live in anymore, which meant even more hardships for the poor that already lived here.

Patrick finally found Running Eagle, or more appropriately Running Eagle nearly ran into Patrick. He was panting heavily, one of those handmade pipe rifles in his hands. Four more fighters, all with an assortment of firearms and other weapons, followed him: one person even had a sword and throwing stars, which amused Patrick for some reason.

"Auxiliary!" he shouted, pointing to the southwest. "More Syndie's are lining up to attack us at Park Avenue. Can you help us?"

"Where is Reverend?" Patrick asked.

"Dead," Running Eagle said. "Bullet to the chest on 7th Street."

"Deer Wing?"

"She's up north, holding off an attack on McTavish Avenue. If we can't hold here, then we have to fall back to the old school, and we won't last long there."

Patrick took a deep breath, and nodded. "Alright, let's do this!" Patrick shouted to the grouped people. "Let's kick their ass!"

"Yeah!" The Rez fighters shouted, and Running Eagle grinned, and led the way to where the fighting was already taking place.

They crossed the old Canadian National Railway yards, where miles of good steel still lay untouched, with shacks and huts built all around the sprawling flat ground and industrial area. There was a few fields of corn and wheat that was struggling to grow in the harsh weather of the northern Wasteland, though the people that now trampled, fought and burnt the few shoots that had struggled to rise up would make it even harder. Patrick regretted the fact that he had to walk through some of those fields, the farmer in him telling him to avoid the green shoots if he could. Of course it wasn't that easy.

As they went, people who were still in their shacks came out. Most gathered their most valuable possessions and headed east toward the school. Patrick even saw a man carrying an old TV, even though the screen was busted and the power cord was short a plug in.

But a few men and women came out, armed with stashed weapons and guns: some hand made, clobbered together guns like the pipe rifle that Running Eagle was carrying, others with knifes, one person with an assault rifle, which reminded Patrick of the one that he picked up in Waskada. Part of him wished he had that, and not left in some locker in the RAMP HQ back in Winnipeg..

Past the metal rails and onto the other side of the track, the sound of gunfire, screams and clanging metal directed the ragtag group to the fighting. Patrick was about to reach for his hunting rifle, but the memory of what happened last night prevented him from pulling it out.

"Running Eagle," Patrick shouted, making the man turn but continue walking straight. Patrick pulled the hunting rifle off his back, and tossed it to Running Eagle. He caught it, looking at it like an ancient treasure.

"You're most likely a better shot than me," Patrick said, before pulling out both the submachine gun and .44 magnum in both hands. "I'm a bit better with this anyway."

Running Eagle nodded, and grinned. "Well let's go black jacket hunting then, huh?" He then turned to another man, barked orders to follow the Auxiliary, and dashed off to the north.

Patrick waved to the men and women following him, now about fifteen or so people. "Remember that these guys have submachine guns that can spray a lot of bullets out, so make sure you stay as far away as you can. Making them duck and take cover is as good as killing them, because they can't shoot at you as easily. And for heaven sakes, none of you should do stupid heroics. If you want to survive, to rebuild The Rez and Brandon after we kick the Syndicate out of here, then you have to stay alive. Take cover when you need to, and move around the gangsters when you need to. Okay?"

The men and women, most of them youngsters with a few middle aged and older people to mix it up, nodded, and cheered. "Let's do this!" "For Brandon!" "Down with the Syndicate!"

Patrick grinned, and followed the mob that was chanting, cheering and roaring out all the things they would do to the Syndicate fighters that they faced. If half the things they said were even possible to do to one person, Patrick would have been amazed.

They rounded the corner of a warehouse and all hell broke loose. Four Syndicate guys, barricaded behind some scrap metal and piles of dirt that had been hastily erected, fired a machine gun into The Rez fighters that had charged at them. The poorly armed freedom fighters fell down, many crying out in surprise and agony, a few flailing in spasms as they cried out in pain and horror, a few more lying ominously still.

"Get behind cover!" Patrick shouted over the ratta-tat-tat of the machine gun. The few that did hear found some cover, while Patrick lifted his submachine gun up and fired short bursts at the Syndicate soldiers, some of whom flinched as the 10 mm bullets cracked past their. The other Rez fighter with an assault rifle fired, helping to keep the machine gun from firing at them as much. A loud report of a hunting rifle, followed by one of the Syndicate fighter's chest exploding in blood and gore, told Patrick that Running Eagle must have gotten into position.

"Watch out!" someone shouted beside Patrick, before standing up and pulling the pin on the grenade in his hand. A Syndicate fighter shot at the standing grenadier, three bullets giving a wet slap as they hit the man, who crumpled over.

"Oh shit!" Patrick shouted, dropping his gun, picking up the live grenade, and tossing it toward the machine gun in a fraction of a second, before he even realized he had done it. The loud BANG of the grenade, followed by the shower of dirt, metal fragments and bodies all around, left Patrick stunned, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he leaned against an old fire hydrant. No more streams of death came from the Syndicate fighters and that machine gun.

Patrick fell against the nearest wall, breathing heavily. His mind raced as he thought about everything that just happened. But at least the machine gun had fallen silent, the muzzle pointed harmlessly up in the air, the deafening voice replaced with a few moans and cries of pain.

"Well, that's one way to deal with that," a woman said, looking at where the machine gun had been stationed. Patrick gave a weak nod, before taking a deep breath and grabbing his assault rifle.

"Okay, we should get set up," Patrick said, giving some orders for people to get the machine gun set up and pointed the other way, where the Syndicate would be coming from. Everyone else found hiding positions where they could fire from, perhaps surprising whatever Syndicate warriors would be coming along.

Patrick climbed up to the top of a nearby warehouse, and snuck to the west side of the building, to see if he could scout out what the situation was.

Behind him, toward The Rez, smoke and flames still licked up into the sky, though Patrick could hear gunfire moving away, to the north and east. To the west, toward the center of Brandon and past dead trees and long abandoned homes, Patrick could see small groups of black moving on the streets. A bunch of smoke rose along 18th Street, the casinos and hotels on the strip on fire by the forced workers of The Rez. Even if the Syndicate survived this attack, it would be years to rebuild.

Patrick's eyes finally noticed one rather large group of Syndicate fighters that were making it's way toward where Patrick stood. And in the middle, holding a strange looking gun, was a short, blonde haired woman.

"Really? The Boss?" Patrick whispered, blinking, and looking closer. It was the leader of the Syndicate in Brandon, and she was leading a group of Syndicate soldiers right to his position.

Someone down there must have spotted him, as suddenly bullets flew past Patrick's head. He didn't have time to figure out who it was if he wanted to stay alive. Patrick crouch walked part of the way across the roof, before sprinting the last few feet and down the ladder he used to get up. "They're coming!" he shouted. "Get ready!"

Patrick barely had time to get behind one of the hastily erected barricades before the large mass of black uniformed thugs came charging. Somewhere nearby, Running Eagle's hunting rifle fired, breaking one Syndicate woman's leg and making her fall and scream bloody murder. A man tripped over her fallen body, and lead to a minor pile up.

The machine gun then began firing, mowing down half a dozen Syndicate fighters in one sweeping motion, a scythe of lead harvesting the gangsters.

The machine gun got one my long burst off before it finally ran out of ammo, much to Patrick's disappointment. But many of the Syndicate were down, some from the machine gun, other's by Running Eagle's sniping, more by Patrick and the other fighter's guns and weapons, and by now The Rez fighters had the numerical advantage. Patrick smiled as it seemed that it was all going in their favor.

A weird metallic woosh flew by, a green ball of energy flying by and striking a man behind Patrick, making him duck behind his protection. The man barely had time to scream before his entire body literally disintegrated into a green goo.

"Plasma gun!" someone shouted, before the advanced energy weapon fired again, hitting a the pile of bricks and steel used to protect the Rez fighters. The plasma went straight through, melting the metal into slag that oozed from the perfect circle that had been created.

Patrick gripped his gun, and popped up, firing a three bullet burst at The Boss, just standing and firing her devastating weapon at The Rez. The bullets missed, but she barely flinched as they hit the pavement and dead ground around her.

"You fuckers!" She screamed. "I'm not letting this city fall to you worthless pieces of shit!" Another plasma rifle round, this time striking another Rez resident, disintegrating him in place.

"This City belongs to the strong! And that is me! I am the strongest person here!" The Boss continued to rant. "The Syndicate is stronger than all of you worthless sacks of shit put together!"

Patrick scowled, and this time when he stood up and depressed the trigger, going full automatic on his submachine gun.

The gun jerked in his hand, trying to go up and to the left with each shot, meaning that soon he was firing up into the air well above The Boss.

But some of those bullets did strike her. The plasma gun fired once more as she dropped it, hitting the barricade Patrick was hiding behind, but lower, and dug into the ground with a hiss of heat and steam. She staggered a moment, grabbing at her chest and abdomen as she realized some of those bullets had hit her in vital locations, and blood poured from her mouth and onto the ground. The Boss took one more step, before falling to her knees, then to her side.

Patrick raced up to her, his empty assault rifle still in his hand. He skid to a stop, kicking dirt and stones into her face and wounds. She was reaching toward the plasma gun, only a few inches from her fingers, but Patrick kicked that away from The Boss's reach.

She looked up with blank, dying eyes. "Y-you… Auxillary," she gasped, blood foaming on her lips. "You could have… done so much."

"That's what I'm doing right now," Patrick snarled, pulling out his .44 Magnum and pointing it right at her forehead.

The Boss managed a weak smile, coughing more blood as she did so. "So you are. But what good will it be when the Brotherhood crushed Assiniboia?"

Patrick pulled the trigger, the back of The Boss's head exploding in blood and brain matter.

Patrick looked back to the men and women that had followed him. Some had wounds that were being attended to, some were scavenging from the dead corpses of the Syndicate fighters, other's ensuring that all the Syndicate fighters were dead, and a handful just sitting, staring in disbelief and surprise that they won.

"W-we did it?" one stammered as Patrick picked up the plasma rifle.

Patrick turned, and nodded. "We did it."

Pip-Boy InfoTracker Note #873

History of the Syndicate, Published 2214

The Syndicate that currently rules Brandon is little more than the remains of raider gang from Eastern Assiniboia that managed to not only survive the Pacification Conflicts of the early 22nd Century, but managed to flee west, and arrived in Brandon. Back then, Brandon was still an independent City State, and the former raiders, having hid their identities and posed as displaced settlers, were granted refugee. Many of the former raiders began to settle down, content to have a safe place, food and shelter. But some were itching to continue fighting, among them a raider leader known only as "The Boss."

In the years after they arrived, The Boss began to organize the former raiders into a strong gang that soon came to control the underlife of Brandon. With it's pseudo-anarchy, Brandon was the perfect place for those in Assiniboia that wanted to break loose and find drugs, gambling and hookers, which the newly formed Syndicate was more than happy to provide for a price. The Syndicate became more and more like an old-world gangster gang, with fancy suits, submachine guns, and ruthlessness to control the entire underworld of Brandon.

But when Brandon was on the verge of joining Assiniboia in 2116, The Boss, realizing that his corruption and gangsterism would not be tolerated, instead overthrew the few people that lead Brandon, establishing a brutal criminal empire nation in Brandon. But over the decades that followed, the Syndicate would become more brutal: slavery began, as well as Gladiatorial combat at the old Keystone Centre hockey arena, and instead of just selling drugs, making them and testing new ones became a major industry. By 2170, Brandon was little more than a hell hole of crime, drugs and gambling, with every vice and sin available to man up for sale. The Boss died in 2129, but his successor retained the title, as did everyone after that since then. And the Syndicate has been able to do what many others couldn't: keep Assiniboia out, most notably in the short lived Assiniboian-Syndicate War of 2151, when the entire Assiniboian army was destroyed by a Syndicate ambush.

It remains to be seen if the Syndicate will ever be tossed out of Brandon, or if Assiniboia would be willing to let them last forever.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Within minutes of The Boss's death, the news had spread through Brandon like wildfire. The liberators were heartened and fought even harder, while the oppressors were starting to stumble and crumble. Lieutenants that were still alive tried to organize their groups to resist the now growing strength of those from The Rez, bolstered by the freed slaves from the Keystone Centre, but more already began to bicker about who was going to become the new Boss. Patrick chuckled as he remembered the same thing happening in Waskada, almost a month ago now, and the result was no less devastating. Well, to the people that he was fighting.

Far to the north, a different, more familiar sound of gunfire echoed across the valley to the southern part of Brandon. Patrick recognized it as service rifles and revolvers similar to the one he got, which must mean that the Assiniboian troops must be in the city as well. It was impossible to tell though.

With the Syndicate broken and some even fighting each other, Deer Wing and the liberation movement surged forward, reaching 18th Street in a few hours of stiff fighting. The Asylum was set on fire by a mob of enraged Rez fighters, ending one symbol of The Syndicate's hold on Brandon. Someone decided to selectively destroy parts of the sign over the HQ of the Syndicate. With a few sledgehammers and TNT, only "Set Free" remained standing of the slogan that the Syndicate used to keep the people in line.

Patrick was present at the opening of the Keystone Centre, and the freeing of the slaves that were on sale there. The gladiators that fought in the old arena, at least the ones that didn't swear support to the new order quick enough found themselves dead as well.

"Auxiliary!" Deer Wing shouted, making Patrick turnaround from the crowd that watched the hotel next to the Keystone Centre go up in flames. "We did it!"

Patrick was surprised when she wrapped her arms around Patrick, holding him tight in a bear hug that was surprisingly strong for her small body. Patrick, recovering from his surprise, hugged back. It had been a long time since he had actually had a woman this close, and it was a strange, almost foreign feeling to him.

After a moment Deer Wing looked at Patrick's confused face pulled back, clearing her throat and nervously smiling. "I… I didn't mean to do that. Sorry."

"No, no," Patrick said, licking his lips. "No… no worries."

They stood there for a moment. "So, what are you going to do now?" Patrick finally asked.

Deer Wing looked around at the city that now lay before her. "I… I really don't know. I've been fighting for this so long, trying to figure out how to even stay alive under The Syndicate. I never thought about what would happen when we actually won."

Patrick nodded, but before he could say anything, a loud whiney echoed amongst the crowd. Patrick spun around to see Colonel Januet astride Demon, Jenkins still floating a few feet behind. One other RAMP man was on a sleipnir, and three men in a grey-green uniform with a helmet from the Army, the one with the cleanest uniform had stripes and stars on his sleeve marking him as a major.

"Wow, I never expected you guys to get back here!" Patrick exclaimed with a smile. "And you brought some friends, I see?"

Colonel Januet smirked. "It takes more than some Syndie punks to take down a Dragoon, even if he just lost a leg."

"And don't forget me!" Jenkins exclaimed.

Colonel Januet rolled his eyes. "Yeah, the bucket of bolts helped. The arrival of a train full of RAMP officers and army blokes helped as well up north."

Patrick just chuckled, patting his sleipnir's head. "Are they telling the truth Demon?"

The eight-legged equine just snorted, two of its hooves pawing at the broken pavement.

"Who is this man?" Deer Wing asked, looking up at the disheveled, dirty man in the Red Serge.

"Colonel Mortimer Januet of the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police," he said, taking off his Stetson and bowing.

"Deer Wing," she said, her voice emotionless.

"She is the leader of the movement that did all this," Patrick said.

"Oh really now?" Colonel Januet said, replacing his hat. "Well I have to say you did a pretty good job at it."

Deer Wing shook her head. "I just guide the men and women who sought their freedom, remind them what we could do. And the Auxiliary here did a lot as well in the fighting."

Colonel Januet looked at Patrick and nodded. "Well good job there Patrick."

Patrick turned back to Deer Wing. "What would Brandon's relations with Assiniboia be?"

Deer Wing waved her hands. "No, I'm not making that decision. The people of this town will decide."

"Good ol' fashioned democracy then, huh?" Colonel Januet said. "Well just know that we can march in and take this town if we want to now." The way he said it made it sound like that was the order he had been given.

"And we just overthrew the people that kept you out in two different wars," Deer Wing snapped back. "I think we could handle a few of you red coats." The two started glaring at each other.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Patrick exclaimed, glaring at Colonel Januet. "Do you seriously have to piss off everyone you meet?"

The Dragoon jolted up, blinking at Patrick in surprise. He quickly regained his composure, and shook his head. "I only want what's best for Assiniboia."

"And I want what's best for the people of Brandon," Deer Wing replied.

Patrick stepped in between both of them, raising his hand to silence both of them. "Look, why can't we make a deal for both?"

Deer Wing and Colonel Januet looked at Patrick. "What do you suggest?" Deer Wing asked.

Patrick looked between both of them, chewing on his lip and thinking of what to say. "Well… what if Assiniboia provides aid: construction materials, food and technology, to help Brandon recover from this battle and Syndicate oppression. Brandon allows Assiniboia to establish a base for soldiers to protect the town and fix the railroads so the trains can run to the west. And then in three or four years, a referendum is held to see if Brandon will join Assiniboia." Patrick looked over Colonel Januet, then back to Deer Wing. "How does that sound?"

Colonel Januet frowned. "What gives you the right to propose such a deal? And are you seriously suggesting that your nation isn't capable of controlling Brandon?"

"Control?" Deer Wing said. "You think you can just control us like The Syndicate did?"

Colonel Januet stiffened in the saddle. "I… uhh… no! Of course not! We don't…"

"Exploit the poor and weak for the gain of the rich? A government that is so far away, so corrupt, so devoted to greed that they don't care about anything outside of the borders of Winnipeg?"

"Both of you stop it!" Patrick shouted. "I only made that offer because no one else was suggesting anything else. Get the men in the suits from Winnipeg to come and pick over the fine details, but don't you think that's at least fair? That Assiniboia and Brandon help each other?"

Everyone stood quietly for a moment, before at least Colonel Januet grumbled. "Yeah, fine."

"I'm in agreement with this idea," Deer Wing said, before turning to the RAMP men and soldiers. "Maybe if you were smart enough to bring more than just guns and brawn, we could have settled this, no?"

Colonel Januet grumbled. "Well, fine. I guess we can get back in contact with Winnipeg and figure this out. Do you know if there is a radio-telegram station here?" When Deer Wing shrugged, the Colonel turned away and began barking orders at the other RAMP officers and Assiniboian army soldiers following him.

"Also, will I get my sleipnir back?" Patrick shouted to Colonel Januet.

"Yeah, of course," Januet replied. "This beast will barely do as I tell him to. He's… something else, that's for certain."

Patrick watched as the group of Assiniboian soldiers and policemen walked away, through the throngs of celebrating people and back north to the hastily established camp they had built. Jenkins the Mister Handy robot stayed behind with Patrick. As the group of sleipnir riders left, the hotel that had been burning came crashing down, raising more cheers amongst the masses.

"That was very nice of you," Deer Wing said, standing beside Patrick. "Did you really think that we deserve our freedom?"

"I think Brandon deserves a chance to decide. This town needs to be rebuilt and stabilized," Patrick said, kicking at the broken pavement beneath him. "But Assiniboia isn't going to go away. Eventually, some day, Assiniboia would have taken over Brandon. I don't know if it would have been in a decade or a century, but eventually Assiniboia would get Brandon."

"You make it sound like Assiniboia will last forever," Deer Wing remarked, crossing her arms. "Nothing lasts forever. You helped prove that today."

"I don't know if my country will last forever. But what I do know is that Brandon deserves the chance to join Assiniboia on Brandon's terms, not Assiniboia's."

Deer Wing nodded. "That's… fair. I won't say that I don't want to join Assiniboia, but I can't say that I'm happy about doing it." She turned and smiled at Deer Wing. "If even a few of the people who are in charge of Assiniboia are like you, then I think I can be persuaded."

Patrick eventually got Demon back, though by the glare Colonel Januet gave Patrick, the Dragoon would have more liked to shoot the Auxiliary for some reason, most likely insubordination or something. Patrick did his best not to let it show, but he was glad when he finally got out of the old store, a massive shopping mall turned into a barracks and supply storage, that the Assiniboian-Brandon Peacekeeping Force claimed as their own.

"Where are we off to master?" Jenkins asked, coming up to Patrick as he mounted Demon.

"Well, I'm close to home, so maybe down to Melita," Patrick said. "I haven't heard about my grandmother in a long time."

"Wherever you go sir, I will be right with you!" Jenkins exclaimed, making Patrick chuckle.

"Well I can't really stop you now, can I?"

"You could sell me, tell me to go away, give me to someone else, blow me up with an explosion," Jenkins said in his matter of fact British accent. "Lots of ways!"

Patrick chuckled and shook his head. "No, I wouldn't do that."

"Then let's be off! Tally-ho and all those things," Jenkins cheerfully exclaimed.

Patrick, Demon and Jenkins left soon after supper time, and headed on a general south-western direction. They stopped after the sun set near the town of Souris, setting up camp near an old farmstead that hadn't seen a plow in over a hundred years. That night gunfire and explosions ripped through Souris, carried over the distance of the quiet night to reach Patrick. He had no idea what it was, but due to the proximity to Brandon, Patrick had a feeling it had to do with The Syndicate.

Patrick avoided Souris as much as possible, instead fording the river that had the same name as the town a few miles to the west. The spot wasn't too deep, and the trails that lead to and from the ford looked well used, either by wild game or travelers that preferred to not stay on the highways and roads.

Patrick ended up following the Souris River, as it lead directly to Melita. A few river boats, some going south to Melita, some north to Souris, passed by Patrick. Most carried cargo, most of it likely heading to or from the Rocky Mountain Trail. Patrick waved to a couple of the boats, but the armed guards on them immediately noticed Patrick and pointed their guns at him. Patrick stopped waving to the boats soon after.

The little excursion along the river also allowed Patrick a chance to see the wildlife. Above, the haunting screams of the radgeese mutated Canadian Geese that would, and often did, attack anything on the ground if they were pissed off that day. And they usually were. Radbeavers were also busy building dams along the river and creeks. They would have been strong enough to allow Demon and Patrick to walk over them - it would take a lot of TNT to actually destroy a complete radbeaver dam - but the fierce teeth and territorialism of the mutated rodents made it more foolhardy to do so. Wolves, coyotes, rabbits, radstags, other birds, and the ever present radgophers scampered along as Patrick passed by, keeping a respectable distance.

The little party camped along the river that night.

"Sir, if I must say, you don't seem to be very comfortable," Jenkins said after helping cook the supper.

Patrick had been scratching at the beard on his cheek. "Well, it has been a few weeks since I shaved." The constant itching was starting to get to him, mostly because it had been almost as long since he had a decent shower as well.

"Well, I can fix that up for you!" Jenkins said, one of the arms under his body lifting up, showing the rather sharp saw blade, which began to spin, grind and roar. Demon began to back away from the loud noise.

"Uhhh… I'll wait, thanks," Patrick said, after gulping.

After a decent nights sleep under twisted, mutated trees along the river, Patrick and company left bright and early the next morning. They continued southwest, following every bend and turn of the river. The Souris River, like most rivers in Assiniboia, was a blessing and a curse. While it was used to transport goods and people, it also had dangers like flooding, bandits with boats and even some mutated, hostile creatures that come from other places. Patrick could still remember the big hoopla when he was younger when a massive crab like creature showed near Winnipeg, most likely from somewhere further east. A mirelurk, Patrick thought they were called. A huge uproar about invasive species happened, and soon they didn't appear anymore.

After another day of traveling, stopping only to eat and let Demon graze and drink some water and hunting the occasional radgopher, Patrick finally reached the outskirts of his hometown. Melita was almost like he left it, except with the farms around Melita that were still in ruins since the bandit raid almost a month before.

There were now armed guards at the gates to Melita on the old 83 Highway, wielding service rifles and they pointed it at the figure on a black sleipnir with a robot hovering behind him.

"Halt!" shouted one of the guards, making Patrick and Demon stop. "Who are you, and what are you doing?" Patrick recognized the militiaman as a local farmer, but Patrick couldn't for the life of him remember what his name was.

"Patrick Morrison, and I'm here to see my grandma."

"Patrick?" the other guard said, turning around. "Good god! I can't believe you're still alive!"

Patrick blinked. "Coby? You finally joined the militia, huh?"

Coby chuckled, though it wasn't out of anything really funny, it sounded like. "Joined isn't the right word. Try something like 'forced.'"

"What do you mean?"

"All able bodied men had been ordered into the militia of every town in the area," the first farmer said. "Well, almost every town. Assiniboia is under threat, don't you know?"

"Oh lay off. The Brotherhood is Fargo's and Winnipeg's problem, not ours," Coby said. "Like they would ever attack us up here."

Patrick knew all too well that the Brotherhood had infiltrated Assiniboia. He'd dealt with one such group, the RAMP had to have more people under suspicion. But, you know, why bother people?

"Well they aren't that far away," the farmer said, before spitting into the dust. "And if half of what is said about them is true…"

"Oh, you really believe DBS propaganda? Please!"

Patrick cleared his throat. "Anyway, can we please go in?"

"Of course," Coby said, glaring at the farmer, working the hand crank to open the gate that had been thrown over the highway. Patrick smiled, and urged Demon into town, Jenkins floating behind.

Grandma May Morrison had been in the Melita Hospital since the attack on the farm that killed her husband and kidnapped her grandson. Doctor Burnbank, who had first looked after May when she was shot, stood beside her bed in his white coat when Patrick finally came in, scrawling on a clipboard with a pencil. Patrick finally found the room, after glancing into the other wards in the small hospital, and not finding any one else in them.

"Your leg is in a lot better shape now than it has been," Patrick heard the doctor say. "You are getting feeling in it again, right?"

"Yes, I can feel things now," May said, but her speech drawled, almost slurred. Patrick's heart sank, wondering how far down the hole she had gone while he was away.

"I'm going to order a wheelchair for you though. But it could be a few weeks before any are shipped out here, due to the current crisis," the doctor said, placing the pencil in his pocket, and slipping the clipboard under his arm. "But I will see what I can do…" he said, turning around, and coming face to face with Patrick.

"Patrick!" he exclaimed.

"Patrick?" May asked, trying to look beyond Dr. Burnbank who blocked her view of the door.

Patrick looked around the doctor, and smiled. "Hello grandma."

May Morrison blinked several times, a smile crossing her face, slowly lifting her arms to her grandson. "Oh, Patrick! Patrick, Patrick Patrick…"

Patrick walked around the doctor, and wrapped his arms around his bedridden grandmother. She felt so weak, so tired; her arms merely rested on Patrick's shoulders, and Patrick did his best not to crush the fail figure. She felt so much smaller, so much weaker than he'd ever remember. Patrick could feel his heart drop through his chest into his stomach.

"I'm here," he said, tears in his eyes. "I thought I should say hi."

Carefully Patrick pulled away from the hug, before finding a chair and sitting with her. "So how are you feeling grandma?"

"Okay," she replied. "Very tired though. What about you? Have you found Zach yet?"

Patrick looked down at his dusty boots, the brahmin leather starting to wear from the wear and tear. "No. I've had to go all over Assiniboia, but so far nothing yet."

May Morrison closed her eyes for a moment, before opening them again. The vibrant color of life was gone. Just a tiny little flicker remained. "You'll find him. You have to."

Patrick nodded. They sat quietly for a long time, before Patrick spoke up again. "The doctor said your leg is getting better."

"He's been saying that for a while now," she said. "I'm sure he's just saying that to assure me. I've only been out of bed when they have an entire team to help me. I don't know if I will ever leave this hospital alive."

"Grandma," Patrick said, grabbing her hand. "Don't say that. You'll pull through."

She smiled, before coughing. "Oh Patrick," she started, after her bout, gasping for air. "You were always like that. Your first dog, Marley… you lay beside her the day she couldn't get up, begging her not to go."

Patrick could feel tears welling up in his eyes. "Grandma..."

May continued smiling, rolling over on her bed to face Patrick. "I've had a long life. Married the man I love, had three wonderful children, got to see my grandchildren grow up, made not only a living but a life in a world that seemed so determined to make sure that surviving is hard enough." May took a deep breath, and rolled back to her lying position.

"Patrick," she started again, her voice weak from exhaustion and sickness, "I just want you to know that I'm proud of you. Harold would never have said it directly, but he was as well." May sighed, and closed her eyes. "And you will find Zach. I know it."

Patrick continued to hold May's hand, but it grew colder in his grip. May's breathing slowed, her chest barely moving with each breath, the last one shallower than the one before. Calm came to her face, lined with decades of long work, joy and determination, before she breathed no more.

Patrick sat there, holding on to her hand, for a long time. Tears welled up in his eyes, quiet sobs escaping his lips as May Morrison, on June 4, 2218, at the age of 72 years of age, peacefully passed away.

Assiniboian funerals took place usually within a day or two after death. It was a bit of a hold over from after the War of 2077, when morgues, crematoriums and cemeteries were unable to handle the sheer number of bodies of those that died of cancer, radiation, starvation, and a myriad of other health reasons. The mass graves where hundreds, thousands of people were buried when they were no time, energy or will to dig individual plots in the aftermath had been phased out, but coffins and the fancy funeral services had long since passed to a more simple, quiet affair.

May was buried beside Harold on the family farm, in the small area near the burnt out husk of the family home that had been set aside as the final resting place of the Morrison clan since after the War. Simple wooden crosses were used until a more permanent stone monument could be erected.

Well-wishers, family and friends all came out to the farm to pay their last respects, and to help comfort Patrick. But after the fifteenth, "she was a great woman" and twenty-second "She's in a better place," Patrick had to leave. He couldn't stand it anymore.

He saddled Demon, temporarily housed in his old stable, and headed south to Melita. No one stopped him at the gate this time, recognizing him as Patrick Morrison, the Auxiliary, Melita's hometown hero. Patrick rode through the gate, followed behind by Jenkins (the Mister Handy had become a bit of a sensation in the small, backwater town that rarely got such "modern" conveniences). Patrick turned down one street, then another, before he finally reached his destination, Melita's Central Park.

The grass was long dead, the trees cut down within a few years of the bombs, the old museum that was an even older two story school house had collapsed from extreme age, the playground no longer existed. But a couple things did remain, a stone cenotaph that marked Melita's dead from the First and Second World Wars, and then when Assiniboia finally reached the area, a new bronze plaque was created to honor those men and women that were killed in the American Occupation and later the War of 2077.

It was the quietest outdoor space in Melita: far from the hustle and bustle of Main Street where trade and commerce took place, a short walk from the homes both north and south of the park that few people walked or rode by.

"May I enquire, Sir, as to the reason we are here?" Jenkins asked as Patrick pulled Demon to a stop, and then swung off his Sleipnir.

"I… I don't know." Patrick replied as he pulled Demon to the side. "But please stay right here for now."

"Of course sir!" Jenkins replied in his permanently cheery voice. "I shall be here if you need me."

Patrick could never explain in words why he enjoyed this place. When he was going to school and wanted to get away from the other kids, he always found his way over here. Was it the quiet, the tranquility, the reverence of a place like this? He could never explain why he liked it back then, and now, as he went back, he still had no idea.

Patrick tied Demon to an old fence post, and walked over to the Cenotaph. The stone was cracked and missing in places, the cast iron plaques were rusted, some of the words having worn off thanks to over 200 years of harsh weather. But most of the names remained. Patrick could recognize a few of the last names, names that were still in Melita even after all this time.

Patrick sat on a bench that was positioned to face the monument, and tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

It would have been twelve years ago now. The Assiniboian-Brotherhood War was in its sixth year of attritional, on-and-off warfare, and Assiniboia was barely holding onto the ruins of Fargo, the town the Brotherhood wiped out that started the war. It was just a few minutes before lunch. Mr. Dennis, the principal of Melita School, knocked on the door to the class of fifteen students, lead by the sixth Grade teacher Mrs. Henderson. Even after all this time, long after he graduated and knew the full names of his teachers, he still addressed them as he did as a student.

Mrs. Henderson, in a faded but still pretty blue dress, walked over to the door, her dress swishing and swaying, where Mr. Dennis, his face usually in a permanent state of smiling and happiness, was no longer smiling. That was the first warning sign.

"Patrick, could you come with me please?" Mr. Dennis said into the classroom after briefly talking with Mrs. Henderson.

Am I in trouble? The first thought that goes through any kids mind when the principal of the school calls you. Patrick had beat up Jimmy Striker a few days before, only because Jimmy and his "gang" would not stop bullying Patrick and the other kids. Jimmy despised Patrick, but knew telling the teachers about that incident would mean that he would get ratted out as well. Maybe Jimmy hated Patrick more than the fear of having to deal with the Principal now?

Mr. Dennis lead Patrick into the hallway, and they walked all the way up into the Principal's Office, up in the front of the school.

"Patrick," he finally started, adjusting the tie under his collar. "I'm sorry to tell you that your father was killed yesterday while fighting near Fargo."

If Mr. Dennis said something after that, Patrick couldn't remember it. He sat in the office, staring at Mr. Dennis for who knew how long, before he was at last allowed to leave the office.

But Patrick didn't go back to class. No one knew where the young Morrison boy had gone.

May Morrison rushed into town with her husband after hearing that her grandson disappeared, so soon after finding out herself that her son had been killed in the line of duty down south and her pregnant daughter-in-law had collapsed at the news, and was rushed into the hospital. Fortunately they found Patrick before sundown, curled up next to the Cenotaph, his cheeks stained with tears even though he had finally fallen asleep. Harold came a moment later, and they took the boy, any punishment or anger at his disappearance forgotten.

Gracie Morrison rapidly declined in the weeks that followed, but at least Doctor Burnbank had been able to save her child, Zach, before she finally passed on. That time Patrick and May went together to the Cenotaph, where the freshly engraved name of Sergeant Albert Morrison had been added to the old rock.

"Why is this happening?" Patrick whimpered, May's arms still around him.

"It's a test. I don't know if it's a God like Reverend Jamison preaches about, or another force, or what. But it is a test." Grandma Morrison's arms were comforting around Patrick, making him feel like he was not alone, safe.

"This test is one that you will face your entire life, Patrick," she continued. "It's a test of morals, of strength, of family, of love and loss. But it's not like in school. You aren't graded on it. At least, not that you know. But what you learn about yourself and the world when things like this happen make you a better person."

Sitting at the Cenotaph twelve years later, Patrick could still feel May Morrison's arms around him as he sat looking at the monument.

And he always would.

PipBoy InfoTracker Note #9834

Ode to the Radgoose

By Emily W. Poe,

Winner of the Governor-General's Poetry Award 17 years running

The majestic radgoose! Flying high above us all

Large wings, fierce claws, no bodypart small.

The shriek of victory, of anger, incoming pain

Warn all that attacking them will have no gain.

Hats, helmets, power armor, none can stand

To the monster's power and strength in this land.

So hide the children, the small dogs and the cat

The only way to stop it is to make it grow fat

Then club it on the head after it had it's fill

And then shoot, defeather, and put it on the grill

With some potatoes, some carrots, for hours five

It goes well with 2056 Red Wine, and some chive

And the meat will taste most delicious, I'm glad

Because the motherfucker killed my dad!


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Patrick had a room at the Melita Hotel and Bar, for pretty obvious reasons. It was your standard hotel room: bed, dresser, bathroom, little fridge, broken TV and a working radio, turned to DBS. Patrick had the morning news on as he finished bathing and shaving for the first time in weeks.

"With the death of it's leader by the hand of The Auxiliary, The Syndicate has finally been driven from the Independent State of Brandon," Brad Horshaw said over the static and pops of the radio. "DBS sources in the RAMP and in Brandon have confirmed that negotiations between the independence movement that did most of the fighting to drive out their oppressors and Assiniboia have been scheduled to take place in the near future.

"Prime Minister Richard Hawkson met with the leader of the Enclave today in Winnipeg," Horshaw continued, with a change of tone and content. "The leader of the Enclave, Speaker of the House Joshua Graham spoke to DBS after the meeting."

"While we cannot apologize for what has happened in the past between the United States of America and Canada," Graham began, "I can promise that the Enclave, using our knowledge and technology, can and will make Assiniboia and the wasteland a better place."

Patrick thought on that for a moment as Horshaw went on to something about the Bank of Assiniboia and deposits and stuff. At first, what Graham sounded good, but Patrick realized that there was an issue with that statement: Speaker Graham didn't say that he would work with Assiniboia to improve the lot of humanity. Did he still have some ulterior motives?

A knock at the door interrupted Patrick's thoughts. He looked up in the cracked and dirty mirror, wondering who it would be.

"I'll get it sir!" Jenkins called out, followed a moment later by the Mr. Handy opening the door and a low mumble that Patrick couldn't make out from where he was. "Sir, I believe you should come here."

Patrick sighed, pulled a towel from its rack and dried his face, before grabbing the complimentary robe that came with the room. Tying it around his waist, Patrick went to the door and opened it.

At first Patrick froze in panic at the sight of a massive, power-armored man standing in front of him. Had the Brotherhood finally tracked him down? He knew he had done a lot to screw up their plans in Brandon and at Vault H and elsewhere, and he had a feeling they were most likely trying to find someway to get rid of one annoyance.

But on closer look, Patrick realized that, no, this wasn't Brotherhood. The armor was more streamlined and cleaner than the older suits he had seen printed up on posters, newspapers and other places. The big white E and maple leaf, surrounded with a ring of stars, was also different from the sword, gears and wing insignia (what some had started to call the "Flying Gearheads") that the Brotherhood used.

The person that wore the power armor didn't have his helmet on; instead he held it one metal clad arm. A massive gun, glowing blue from one end with four parallel points out the other end, was hanging somehow from the back of the man's armor, with no obvious discomfort or pain.

"Colonel Granger?" Patrick asked when he recognized the face.

"Yep, that's me," the Enclave soldier said. Patrick opened the door to the room to allow the head of the Enclave's military to come into his hotel room.

"So, what brings you all the way out here?" Patrick asked, reaching into the fridge and offering a bottle of Nuka-Cola, which the soldier took. "I'm pretty sure it's not just a friendly call."

"Well, you are right," Colonel Granger said before he twisted the cap off the top and took a drink, before making a face and coughing. "Shit. Flat and irradiated. The Vault actually had a facility to make Nuka-Cola, you know? Best drink ever." He still drank the Nuka-Cola he had been given though.

"Well, at least it's cold," Patrick replied. "In most places you would only have the warm stuff."

Colonel Granger shook his head, taking another sip and wincing at the taste. "Shit, I'll need a Rad-Away after this I bet. If there is one thing the Enclave could give Assiniboia, it should be the recipe to make this."

Patrick grabbed his bag and walked into the bathroom for some privacy to get dressed. "So why are you out here?"

"I'll make it simple. The Enclave would like your help." Colonel Granger finished the bottle, and tossed it into the garbage can.

Patrick pulled on a pair of jeans. "Oh? And why would that be?"

"Two reasons. First, your name. You are 'The Auxiliary.' Almost everyone in this part of the world will have most likely heard of you by now. And we could use some name recognition like that."

Patrick sighed as he pulled on a red and black plaid button up shirt, and started fumbling with the little Brahmin bone carved buttons. He'd never asked for that, but what could you do? "Alright, what's the second thing?"

"The Enclave needs someone that knows how to live off the land, someone that can deal with others and get results. And you can do all three."

"So… you just want a tour of Assiniboia? I'm sure the UAR could give that to you," Patrick said, finishing buttoning his shirt.

"No, not Assiniboia."

"No?"

"No."

"Well where do you need to go then?"

"There are a few places in old North Dakota that the Enclave wants to scout out. Minot Air Force Base, and Vaults 53 and 63. Maybe learn about some of the towns in the area as well."

"Okay, I've heard of Minot. One of those towns that got nuked, and full of monsters. At least according to the traders that come here to Melita from down south say. They all avoid it." Patrick said as he checked to make sure the shirt was buttoned right. "Vault 63? I've heard of 53, because there is a town around it now, and the base at Minot, but never Vault 63."

"It was part of Project Safehouse," Colonel Granger said. "And, to be honest, that's about all I know about it. There is a list of the Vaults that were part of Vault-Tec that is known to the CEO of Vault-Tec and the top civilian members of the Enclave. I was not privy to all that information, but I've been told enough to know where to look and what they were supposed to have done, and then to investigate and report on those locations."

"What are you exactly investigating?" Patrick asked.

"Top Secret," Colonel Granger said. "I can't tell you."

Patrick finally came back out of the room, and grabbed the brahmin leather hat off the dresser. "Well, I can go with you down there, but I don't know if I can help you a lot with what you want if you don't tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for."

"I can tell you when we get down there." Colonel Granger stated. "Now, can you help?"

Patrick brought his Pip-boy up to look at it, to see what the map said. Zooming in on Melita, he realized there wasn't a notice of where Minot Air Force Base was. "I have no idea how far away it is though."

"That's not a concern for you." Colonel Granger said.

"It is if I have to walk all the way there," Patrick shot back.

"Don't worry about that either," Colonel Granger grinned. "I have a way to get there, and quickly."

Colonel Granger lead Patrick east of Melita, on the broken ruins of Highway 3 that stretched east and west over old Manitoba. Riding Demon and with Jenkins following behind. Patrick got a few strange looks as he lead a flying robot and a power armored man through the southern gate of Melita, just before the bridge that crossed the Souris River. But they knew Patrick, and were let through without any problems.

"So what is this fancy thing you got that can get us to Minot?" Patrick asked.

"You'll see," Colonel Granger said, his metal armor clanking as he walked. They began to walk up the hill that lead out of the valley Melita was built in. When they reached the top, Patrick looked, and gasped.

Sitting beside an old farmhouse and barn was a massive grey colored machine. Two sets of rotor blades on arms sticking out from the central fuselage were pointed upwards into the sky on what otherwise looked like an oversized robot dragonfly. Two men in Enclave uniforms were standing around the machine, both wearing large sunglasses to protect their eyes. An entire lifetime underground weakened the eyes to the point that they may never be fully strong enough to adapt to sunlight.

"Here she is. The VB-02 Vertical Take Off and Landing aircraft, also known as the Vertibird." Colonel Granger waved to the men on the ground, who immediately sprang to their feet and into the machine to prepare it for flying. "How about this to get you there?"

Patrick whistled to himself as he looked at it, but then looked down. "I'm never going to be able to get Demon on that, am I?"

Colonel Granger looked at the sleipnir, then walked over to the Vertibird and talked to one of the pilots. After a moment of talking, Granger returned. "The pilots are uncomfortable moving non-human cargo. They have had only a few actual flights with the Vertibird. They've spent most of their actual flying time in simulation programs."

Patrick sighed, and dismounted, before turning back to Jenkins, who silently floated up to Patrick. "Well, I guess Demon can't come this time."

"Understood sir!" Jenkins remarked, one arm reaching out grab the reins. "What would you like me to do then?"

"Go find Coby, and ask if he can look after Demon until I get back. I'm not sure how or when, but I will contact you somehow."

"Very well master," Jenkins said. "I shall make sure your steed is in pristine condition for when you may need him." Jenkins pulled on the rope. "Come along! Half a league, half a league, half a league onward!"

Demon snorted at Jenkin's attempt at poetry, but followed the Mister Handy back down the hill and into Melita.

Colonel Granger turned back to the Veritibird. "Fire her up! Let's get going!"

First one engine, then another sprang to life, a loud whining noise of gears and motors springing to life to rotate the blades of the VTOL aircraft. A massive cloud of dust was kicked up, making Patrick wince and hold his arm up to try to block the fine dirt and sand from getting into his face, his other hand grabbing hold of his hat before it flew away. Colonel Granger placed his helmet on, locking in place. With the helmet, and the two large orange viewports on the front, it almost looked like he was a smaller, bipedal relative of the larger Vertibird.

"Let's go Patrick," Granger said, his voice metallic and almost robotic from inside the mask. Granger ran to the open door on the side that the second pilot was holding open, and he turned back to wave Patrick on. Patrick adjusted his backpack and ran for the open door. The pilot helped Granger climb up and into the fuselage, then turned to Patrick and helped pull him into the belly of the metal beast. Once Patrick was inside, the pilot pulled the door shut.

"Got to make sure we don't lose our cargo!" the pilot shouted over the roar of the engines. The machine wasn't greatly soundproofed, so shouting was most likely the only way to talk. The pilot turned to Patrick. "First time?"

"First time what?"

"Soaring through the air?"

"You mean… flying?" Patrick asked, eyes wide in surprise. "I know people used to do that, but…"

"Yeah, yeah, wasteland, survival blah, blah," the pilot said, before reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small box, and shaking out a small green objects. "Here, chew on the gum. When we start gaining altitude, the air pressure will make your ears pop, and it could hurt. Chewing on this will help."

Patrick took the gum and hastily popped it in his mouth, and began chewing furiously. His jaw worked up and down, up and down as the pilot chuckled and walked back into the cockpit to take the second seat, and after a final checklist, the engines revved even higher, and the heavy machine lurched up into the air, the jolt nearly making Patrick swallow the gum.

The feeling of being lifted up though made a Patrick's body go into overdrive. It was weird, even disorienting, feeling pressure pushing down and forward on him as the Vertibird turned around to head south. Even trains would never get fast enough, quickly enough to have that feeling of being pushed into your seat, which now hit Patrick.

Patrick's knuckles clung to the armrests on his chair till they turned white, his whole body shaking, even though turbulence wasn't that bad considering how low to the ground they were flying.

"Having fun?" Colonel Granger asked Patrick. The Auxiliary, forcing his head to turn, finally looked to the power armored Enclave soldier. Colonel Granger was also chewing gum, but he seemed a lot more relaxed than Patrick was.

"Eh, you get used to it," Granger said, the shrug he tried to give barely noticeable under the steel and ceramic plates of his armor. "By the second or third flight, you'll be fine."

"Even though this thing could fall out of the air at any moment?" Patrick said.

"The fuselage is armored enough that even should it crash, we'd be safe as long as you have the seatbelts. I promise." The Colonel gave a grin. "Besides, think of it this way: you're the first Assiniboian to go riding in any form of flying aircraft since the Great War!"

Patrick gave a weak smile, but he just hoped this flight would be over soon.

A loud series of chimes echoed through the roaring aircraft, getting Colonel Granger's attention. With a sigh, he placed the helmet back on his head, turning him in a moment from a man encased in scary looking metal into a metal bug-eyed monster. It was pretty upsetting, Patrick thought. Maybe that's what the Enclave was going for.

"Colonel Granger here," he said in his muffled, mechanized voice, just adding to the other-worldly monster feeling of the power armor. "What's up?"

There was a pause, most likely the pilots talking to the Colonel through special radios or something. "Say that again?"

Another pause. "You shitting me? Someone is contacting us on secured frequencies?"

Patrick's vertigo momentarily forgotten, he leaned forward. "What's going on?"

Colonel Granger either didn't hear or didn't want to reply to Patrick. "Okay, well… uh… tell them we are representatives from the Enclave, the official remnant of the US Government and Army, and that we request clearance to land."

There was a long pause, drowned out only by the dual engines on either side. After a long moment, Colonel Granger nodded. "Roger. Carry on then."

"What was that?" Patrick asked once Colonel Granger was done talking.

"Well… apparently someone down there at Minot AFB has access to the US military frequencies that the Enclave uses, and they just called us demanding to get out of American airspace."

"What does that mean?" Patrick asked. "I thought you were American."

"We are… though I have no idea what is down there now. Maybe some Americans survived the war? Maybe the Speaker of the House isn't as crazy as I thought, and that some people do want to make a new United States of America."

Patrick thought about that. "But Assiniboia was made from the US, or well American annexed Canada. Does that mean he wants Assiniboia to be part of it too?"

Colonel Gabriel Granger didn't, or couldn't, give an answer.

The engines on the Vertibird powered down after it finally landed. Patrick let out his breath after he was told they were descending. The sudden stop in the middle of the air, followed by the slow, then fast, then slow jerky descent of the aircraft to the broken asphalt of one of the runways of Minot Air Force Base.

With the Vertibird on the ground and it now possible to speak without shouting, Colonel Granger stood up and opened the door to the cockpit. "What's the reading on radiation out there?"

"Sir, it appears to low to moderate, though I'm sure you'd be fine in that hunk of iron around you."

"Oh, I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about the Auxiliary here. I want him to come with me, and he doesn't have radiation shielding."

"Well give him some Rad-X or something, I don't know," the flyer shot back. "I'm a pilot, not a doctor damnit!"

Colonel Granger sighed, and clanked to the white box attached to the bulkhead on the back of the aircraft, and pulled it open, rummaged through it for a moment, before pulling out a bottle, and tossing it to Patrick. "Take one of these before we go out. I'm sure we won't be here long, but you need to take one of these every four hours or so."

Patrick nodded and opened up the container and dumped a small red and white pill out, swallowing it. Colonel Granger walked around and opened the door to the outside, a series of steps tipping over to allow him out. "Well, let's go see these 'monsters' you Wastelander's are so scared of."

Colonel Granger descended the stairs first, but nearly screamed in panic, followed a moment later by a clash and clank of metal on metal, and a chorus of weapon's having their safeties switched off.

Patrick dashed down the stairs, having grabbed his own Assault rifle and pointing it out at whatever Colonel Granger had been scared of. But that only resulted in a couple guns being pointed at him, making him freeze in place.

"What the hell are these things?" Colonel Granger exclaimed, his Tesla Cannon pointed at the group. "They… they aren't Americans!"

"Well, nice to see bigotry still exists," one of the five sardonically remarked in a raspy voice.

The five… things that were pointing the weapons were, to put it mildly, scary. They looked like humans, and even wore patched but mostly recognizable military uniforms, and were clearly capable of speaking. However, it was what was different about them that was terrifying. The fact it looked like their skin was rotting off, they lacked hair or noses, and their skin, if they even had it, was a sickly greenish-red color, and it looked like a simple gust of wind would either make them fall over or have their flesh fall off the bone.

"Ghouls," Patrick said to Colonel Granger after a moment. "Not many up in Assiniboia, but I remember seeing some in Melita over the years."

One of the ghouls, in a patched military uniform with "Halloway" on a name tag on his chest stepped forward, his gun lowered slightly. "Are you the Enclave guys that we called on the radio?" he asked in a voice that sounded like he smoked a thousand cigarettes a day for the past century.

"I… guess so?" Colonel Granger replied, lowering his gun slightly. "I'm guessing you run this place? I thought it was Americans."

"We are fucking Americans!" the ghoul named Halloway shouted. "Just because we look like we're halfway to death doesn't mean we wouldn't bleed for our country!"

"Okay, sorry," Colonel Granger hastily apologized.

"But the General has expressed interest in meeting with you outsiders." The ghoul sneered. "If I had the choice, I'd kill you guys right here, right now. Consider yourselves lucky."

The angry ghoul turned to the other four and pointed to the main building of the Air Force Base, and all five began a march to the building. Patrick and Colonel Granger made sure to stick a bit back, but they found themselves taking half steps more often than not to make sure they didn't end up stepping on the ghoul's heels. For all Patrick knew, it would kill them if they even got to close.

"So what are ghouls?" Colonel Granger whispered to Patrick after removing the helmet for his power armor and tucking it under his shoulder. "You must have dealt with them before."

"As far as I know, they are just humans who were exposed to enough radiation to mutate them, but not to kill them. I was only taught that in school, though back then we only saw a few come up occasionally on trading routes. It's too cold in Assiniboia for them most of the time, so they prefer to stay down south."

Colonel Granger looked up and over the backs of the five ghouls. "So I guess all of America is mutants now," he said with a sigh.

Patrick shook his head. "Nah, there's a lot of humans in American as well. Quite a few of them trade or travel up north.

"No, I mean people who say they are Americans," Colonel Granger said. "I've talked to a few people in Winnipeg when I got there who claimed they were from south of the old border. Most of them don't seem to care or even know the US as the Enclave has taught me it was: freedom, democracy, powerful, rich, great. Most of them though the flag was just a pre-Great War piece of paper. Paper!"

"If you listen to the DBS long enough, there seems to be a story every week of another riot or assassination attempt between pro-American and pro-Assiniboian forces in places like Devil's Lake and Lark Sal," Patrick said. "It's always been a problem down there it seems."

"Oh?" Colonel Granger replied. "Maybe we'll have to investigate this."

The ghouls stopped in front of a door, and Sergeant Halloway turned around to face Patrick and Colonel Granger. "Okay, follow me. And you better know what you want from the General. He's a busy man."

Colonel Granger nodded, and followed the ghoul into the door. Patrick followed behind, giving a small smile to the four other ghouls. They just glared back, making Patrick turn away and hastily follow Colonel Granger into the building.

The ghoul lead them through a maze of corridors and past quite a few other ghouls, all wearing a patched uniform similar to Sergeant Halloway. Finally they arrived at a door with two ghouls standing guard.

"Jim, Mike, I need to see the General," Halloway said.

The two looked over the humans, before one of them opened the door and slipped inside. A moment later he returned. "Okay, you can go in."

Colonel Granger and Patrick stepped into the office. It had been the base commander's office, complete with old flags of the US and its Air Force and filing cabinets and mountains of paper, and it was a pretty good bet that the man who was sitting behind the desk was the commander of the base. He looked like the other ghouls, but was in a much nicer, fancier uniform (though still patched after decades of constant use) with an entire rainbow of different colored ribbons on his chest beside his neatly pressed tie and, similar to the one that Colonel Granger wore way back at the Enclave Vault when Patrick first met him, this one with two stars on his shoulder and on the lapel of his shirt. A jacket and a peaked cap with the badge of the US Army was hung on a coat hanger just to the side of the desk.

The ghoul was shuffling over some papers on his desk, occasionally turning to the computer on his desk to type something into it. To Patrick it almost looked like he was trying to keep busy, though Patrick had a good feeling that, no, that piece of paper he just dealt with was vitally important.

"Gentlemen," the general remarked, standing up from his desk. His raspy voice had a refined drawl, something that Patrick knew from DBS radio programs was from an area called "The Deep South," though he had no idea where that was. Most likely America, and possibly underground for all he knew.

"Major-General," Colonel Granger said, saluting. Patrick, with his limited Militia experience, gave one that he was sure would have gotten a drill sergeant to beat him into the ground.

"Ah, you two don't have to worry about that," he said, walking around his desk. "Besides, I had a pretty good idea that someone was going to be coming soon. If anything, I should be saluting you two for finally getting here!"

"Um… pardon General?" Patrick asked.

"General Zachary Stokes," the ghoul said, a smile on his lips. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to actually talk to someone from the old USA."

"What do you mean?" Colonel Granger asked.

"I guess let me get you up to speed. On October 23, 2077, Minot AFB was attacked by nuclear weapons, along with every major city and military installation in North America that belonged to the United States of America. Thanks to enough warning, 96.7% of the non-flight crew personal were able to evacuate to the fallout shelter constructed under the base, and all but two of the Strategic Air Command bombers successfully lifted off to attack their designated targets. However, none of the base's bombers or fighters returned from their designated targets."

"So how did all of you become ghouls?" Patrick asked. "As far as I know that was only if you were exposed to radiation after the bombs fell."

General Stokes turned to Patrick and gave a small smile. "Well, you're right. The radiation detection equipment for the base was faulty or damaged, and when we came out a few weeks too early, 46.1% of the non-flight crew personal was mutated into ghouls by the radiation. The rest died."

"I bet it wasn't fun," Patrick said.

"No. I wouldn't wish that even on a Red Chinese bastard." The General shook his head. "Even after all the horrors of Anchorage and the Chinese Expeditionary Force, ghoulification is a terrible thing.

"However, as the base commander, it was my duty to maintain Minot AFB for the United States, so that's what we did. He cleared up the debris from the bombs that landed here, got the runways working again, kept the radar and radio communications maintained to the best of our abilities. Built walls and defenses to keep us safe. We even got the farmboys in the military back to work growing food, much as I bet they hated it. Most of them joined the army to get away from that."

"That's dedication," Patrick remarked.

"It's out job, and also our survival. Had we done nothing, we would all have died from leaving this place or by killing each other. We were sure, a few days, maybe weeks or months, after the bombs fell, the President would come on the radio and tell us we could continue on."

"But that message never came," the ghoul said, now scowling, standing from his desk and walking in front of Colonel Granger. "We waited 140 years for someone, anyone with the authority of the old United States to come and give new orders, to continue the fight against China, rebuild this great nation. One. Hundred. Forty. Years."

General Stokes shoved Colonel Granger, and despite what Patrick was expecting, the power armored Enclave man stumbled back. Must have been a surprise to Colonel Granger as well.

"What took you fuckers so long?" General Stokes growled. "Just sitting in a hole, thumbs up your ass? Waiting for every fucking person in North America to just drop dead? Waiting for the United States to turn into a fucking ancient history lesson? Because by now I'm sure that's all America is, and all America will ever fucking be!"

Patrick stared wide eyed as the ghoul General stared at the Enclave colonel, before at last the ghoul let out a loud exhale and stepped back. "I… I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." The General stood up and straightened his tie.

"Your dedication to the duty to your country and your men serves you well," Colonel Granger replied. "I can understand your frustration, and I'm sorry neither the Enclave or any other body of the pre-war government was able to make contact with you until now."

"But why haven't you made contact with Assiniboia?" Patrick asked. "You have the radio technology to do it, right?"

General Stokes looked at Patrick. "You're from Assiniboia?"

"Well, yes," Patrick said.

"I would have you arrested and shot like the traitorous terrorist that you should be," he said, his gravelly voice doing little to hide the cold-blooded steel he felt, making Patrick shudder. "Your entire country should be wiped off the face of the earth for the knife in the back, the kick to the gut you gave to the nuked and dying corpse of America!"

"Why do you hate Assiniboia so much?" Patrick asked. "Assiniboia was just…"

"You Canadians had been allies of America since forever, but they you just left us for the damn Communists in China when we needed your help most?" the General was getting angry again, making Patrick kick himself for bringing up his country in the first place. "Your leaders refused to work with the US, and we couldn't let China get a foothold just to the north of us, so we had to annex Canada. Believe me, the military was not happy having to march in to take over the second biggest country in the world when the US was already overstretched fighting in Alaska, China and elsewhere, but Canada was just a few steps away from becoming the People's Republic of Canuckistan, and the US couldn't allow that."

Patrick shuffled uncomfortably in front of the ghoul. "I… I…"

"Oh give him a break General," Colonel Granger said. "Besides, he isn't even in the government of the country. He's just been trying to find his brother in this vast wasteland."

The General looked over Patrick, before mumbling an apology and walking back to his desk.

"Besides, we weren't here to make you angry General," Colonel Granger said, turned around to face the General.

"Well you sure managed that already, and did a pretty damn good job of it, but fine. What do you want?" The General crossed his emaciated arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.

"There was a secret project based at Minot at the time of the Great War…" Colonel Granger started.

"Oh." General Stokes said, before beginning to chuckle. "So, I guess you came here for Project Pegasus huh?"

"Yes," Granger said.

"Big Nuclear powered bomber?"

"I believe so."

"Capable of flying for months at a time, drop nukes wherever they need to go, the next stage of nuclear deterrence?"

"That sounds like it. Where is it?" Colonel Granger asked.

"Well, your S.O.L." General Stokes said.

Colonel Granger raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It's gone."

Pip-Boy Infotracker Note #981

How to Fight a Nuclear War with the Trinity: Issued by the Strategic Air Command, 2071

The goal of the US military in this modern world is to defend our homeland from the scourge of atomic bombs. However, the problem with nuclear weapons is that there are so many built by the Chinese, Soviets, British, French and other nations that it's virtually impossible to ensure that no bombers or missiles can actually hit their target.

Therefore, the goal of the Strategic Air Command is to make sure that we can repay the damage that could be caused by our enemies tenfold, and provide a massive deterrent for our enemies to actually using them. The SAC has developed the "Trinity" of nuclear armed forces to ensure the survival of our retaliation capacity: Submarines, Bombers, and Missile Silos.

Bombers were the first and still the best way to deliver nuclear weapons. Massive bombers, carrying dozens of bombs, can lay waste to a dozen cities halfway around the world. However, they are not invulnerable, as enemy interceptor fighters and surface to air missiles can take them down if they are lucky, and if the enemy attacks before the bombers are alerted, many could be destroyed on the ground.

Submarines are another important factor of the Trinity, and in many ways the most secure. Submarines, often powered by nuclear reactors themselves, can sail for months underwater, remained undetected from the enemy, and launch their attacks on their targets and submerge again soon after. Missile technology is rather limiting: only a single warhead can fit on a submarine capable missile, meaning the force of the retaliation is rather limited compared to the other sides of the Trinity.

Land based missile silos are the last part of the Trinity. Massive missiles, carrying specially designed multi-warhead weapons, are the most powerful of the possible retaliatory weapons, but also the most vulnerable. Silo's are stationary targets, well known to the enemy, and undoubtedly targeted by the enemy. While the silo's themselves are designed to withstand nuclear explosions, the weapons could be destroyed if they are not launched soon enough, either by enemy airstrikes or communist insurgents.

The Strategic Air Command Trinity, with the variety of ways to defend America that are complementary between payload, security, and survivability, will always be on guard to defend America!


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

"What do you mean it's gone?" Colonel Granger asked.

"The prototype for Project Pegasus was ordered up into the air the day the bombs fell. We told them to fly north, where we were sure no EMP blasts or stray missiles could hit it. We were in contact with them right up until the first bomb detonated here at Minot. In the chaos after the bombing, what with the radiation, destruction and all of the base's personal either dying or being mutated, it took us two weeks before we got the radio signal back online. We were surprised to find Pegasus was still flying, with enough food and fresh water for another couple weeks, but we couldn't let it land here because of radiation."

"So what did they do next?" Patrick asked.

"They were unable to hail any other Air Force Base, so they decided to keep flying until radiation dropped enough to land at Minot," General Stokes continued. "We kept in contact for another week, but soon after that we lost contact, and we think it was over a lake in Northern Manitoba. Which is now under a few miles of ice. I know, I sent a team in 2082 after the crash to explore the area, but it was all ice."

Colonel Granger sighed. "Well… shit."

"I'm sorry Colonel," General Stokes said. "But had it stayed here, it would have been destroyed in the nuclear detonation."

"I need to contact my superiors," the Colonel said, before stomping and clanging his way out of the room.

"It was a nuclear powered bomber?" Patrick asked. "Like one of those Highwaymen?"

"I really shouldn't be telling you," General Stokes said with a scowl, but then sighed. "But what does it matter now? But it was much more complicated than that, but I guess you could say it was like those cars. Supposed to be able to fly for months on assignment, with enough nuclear weapons to wipe out a medium sized European country. Just one squadron of planes in Project Pegasus would have secured American superiority in the arms race."

Patrick nodded, but then he heard the radio on his Pip-boy screech to life. With a wince, Patrick lifted the device up, and adjusted the dial.

"What was that?" General Stokes asked.

"I don't know, never heard it do that before." Patrick fiddled with the dial a bit more. "Huh, so apparently it's on the Emergency broadcast frequency. Odd, never had anything come to the Pip-Boy before…" Patrick reached the appropriate channel and turned the volume up before setting his hand with the Pip-Boy on the desk to allow General Stokes to hear it as well.

"… Granger, calling Government Site V, come in Site V."

"Site V reading you loud and clear," the static filled voice replied. "Please stand by, directing you to Speaker Graham."

"Who's this Graham?" General Stokes asked, concern in his voice

"Speaker of the House, acting President, guy in charge of the Enclave," Patrick quickly replied. Patrick was more focused on the Pip-Boy, and didn't see the ghoul's eyes go wide at that revelation.

The radio came back on. "Speaker Graham…" there was a loud yawn. He must have just woke up. "What do you have Colonel?"

"Mr. Speaker, I've made contact with Minot AFB."

"That's good! Were you able to get ahold of Project Pegasus?"

"Well… no." Colonel Granger explained everything that happened, the Ghouls, the missing plane.

There was an ominous silence, as Patrick and General Stokes covertly listened in.

"Kill them."

"What?" Colonel Granger asked.

"Wipe out those mutie bastards!" Speaker Graham nearly shouted. "They let a top secret project disappear! Clearly they are not Americans anymore, no matter what they claim."

General Stokes blinked, looking at the Pip-Boy. "What the hell?"

"Sir," Colonel Granger replied. "I protest…"

"Protest all you want, but I want them all dead. And that is an order." The static returned.

"Mr. Speaker!" Colonel Granger shouted into the radio, though no reply came back. Colonel Granger sighed, and the line went dead.

General Stokes sat back into his desk, surprise on his face. "What… even though we were changed by the radiation, that doesn't make us not American!"

Patrick nodded. "I know. But to most of the Enclave, mutants are just as bad as…"

General Stokes reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a 10mm pistol, checking it, before pulling back the slide to arm a bullet into the chamber. "Well, even if he's wearing power armor, the entire base is armed, and even if he kills us all, we will die fighting." The General grabbed the phone on his desk, and started dialing a number.

"General! Wait a minute!" Patrick exclaimed. "I know you see me as a Canadian traitor or whatever, but I will not allow you to throw your life away. And Colonel Granger can have sense talked into him. I know, because I've done it."

General Stokes stared at Patrick, the phone still to his ear. He pushed the last button. A moment later a muffled voice came up. "The base is on Yellow alert. All personnel will be armed, and permission to defend themselves is granted. No one is allowed to initiate hostile action." He slammed the receiver down. "Okay, Assiniboian. I'll listen."

Patrick thought for a moment. "Well, I'm guessing people on the base here could rebuild Project Pegasus? I have a feeling that would be almost as good as the plane itself."

General Stokes drummed his fingers on his desk. "Well… yes. We have a few of the aeronautical engineer's with the companies that built and designed the plane still here, and most of their documents. We might even know where the original blueprints are."

Patrick grinned. "Well now you have the ultimate security."

"Well, no." General Stokes said. "I said I know where they may be, but not that we have it."

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"Well, the blueprints were never kept on the base, but at an office in Bismarck that Poseidon Energy, Lockreed Industries and Ball Aerospace had, the companies involved in Project Pegasus. Always thought it was stupid, as the military base would be more secure, but I was overruled back then." General Stokes shook his head. "I don't even know if they were on the computer or on paper, and who knows if the blueprints would have survived this long."

Patrick drummed his fingers. "Okay… well…" The door swung open, and both the General and Patrick turned to see Colonel Granger in the doorway.

"What are you two talking about?" the Enclave officer asked, his face a complete blank.

"Well, the General was just telling me…" Patrick started

"What the hell do you think you are, just coming in here to kill a bunch of patriotic Americans just because they look different?" General Stokes bellowed, standing up and marching toward the Enclave Colonel. "You seriously think you could just show up and do this?"

Granger blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"We overheard your conversation with the Speaker," Patrick said.

"What? How?" Ganger exclaimed. "That's a top secret frequency!"

"The Pip-Boy picked it up," Patrick said. "And I think it's a terrible idea."

"It's not your call to make!" Granger shouted. "The structure of command is there for a reason."

"Well I think your command structure is…" Before Patrick could finish, a chirping noise came over the radio that Colonel Granger still held in his hand.

"God damnit, I can't do anything that quick…" He mumbled. "Hello?"

"Colonel Granger, I want you to belay the order from the Speaker," a voice barked over the radio, loud enough for Patrick and the ghoul military man to hear it.

"Who is this now?" General Stokes asked.

"The Secretary of Defense," Patrick replied.

"Sir," Colonel Granger said. "He is the commander-in-chief of the Enclave."

"And he has no idea of the situation above ground," the Secretary Hawthorne replied.

"And you do?"

"Well it's a lot better than his. I came up to Winnipeg as the representative of the Enclave to Assiniboia, and I've been getting up to speed as to the situation in the Wasteland. And I think the last thing the Enclave needs to do is to go around, shooting every mutated creature they come across," Hawthorne said. "If the Enclave wants to make itself relevant, we have to work within the balance of power that currently exists, and not go destroy it for our own reasons."

"Sir…"

"The Speaker is not qualified to make that kind of judgement," Secretary Hawthorne interrupted. "But, fine. Whatever. If you want to follow the orders of an out of touch madman, then do it. Just know that I do not agree, a large proportion of the Enclave would disagree, and you will have to live with it for the rest of your life."

The line went dead, leaving the three men standing in the room together in silence. At last, Patrick cleared his throat.

"Colonel, the General said we might be able to find the blueprints for Project Pegasus in Bismarck. If you get those, that should be enough to satisfy your superiors, correct?"

Granger chewed his lip. "Well, yes… I think so…"

"Good enough!" Patrick said, clapping his hands together. "We better get going now then, right?" Patrick pushed at the power armored man, and despite the hundred pounds of metal and ceramic armor, was allowed to be moved to the door.

"Patrick," General Stokes called before Patrick was out the door, making him turn around. The Ghoul came up and offered his hand to Patrick.

"I may still think your a traitor to America, but you are good enough in my books."

Patrick hesitated for a moment, unsure about touching the wrinkled, rotted hand, but he clasped the ghoul's hand anyway. It was warm, a bit warmer than a normal person, but still strong and forceful. But Patrick could also feel a piece of paper pushed into his palm, so when the general pulled his hand away, Patrick made sure he kept the piece of paper, closing his fist to make sure he didn't lose it, before slipping it into his pocket to look at later.

The Vertibird took off a few moments later, making as direct a course for Bismarck as the maps the pilots had available. The movement of a big metal machine lifting off into the air still made Patrick nervous, but the gum and having ridden on one already seemed to be convincing him that maybe, just maybe, he could get used to this.

While Colonel Granger was talking to the pilot, Patrick snuck that piece of paper out of his pocket. It was crumpled, but the ink was still legible.

Check your Pip Boy when no one's looking. Patrick frowned as he read it. Was there something wrong?

"What's that there?" Colonel Granger asked, shouting over the roar of the engines on either side of the fuselage .

Patrick folded the paper up, and slipped it back in his pocket. "Nothing. A note from home."

Granger nodded, and sat down again. "Should be in Bismarck in about half an hour. No problem there."

Patrick nodded, but then stopped. "Wait, are we going south?"

"Yeah? Why?"

"Well, the Brotherhood of Steel is known to be south of Minot. Not sure where exactly." Patrick said back.

Colonel Granger nodded and turned around back to the pilots. He came back a moment later. "They said they will keep an eye out. Shouldn't be hard to avoid them while flying. They shouldn't have aircraft of their own, right?"

"From what I heard, the Brotherhood is always full of surprises. For all I know they have a five story robot waiting to march out and destroy us," Patrick replied.

Colonel Granger chuckled. "Either way, we should be fine."

The Enclave soldier sat down in his seat, and sighed. "Even though power armor is really just an extension of yourself, it can be tiring to stand all day. All the stabilizers and gyros can't prevent you from getting pins and needles in your legs."

Patrick just nodded. The thought had crossed his mind that he wouldn't have minded his own power armor, but from what it sounded like it took weeks, if not months, of training to use, and, well, he just didn't have that time. Maybe after he found Zach, he would ask Colonel Granger if he could get some power armor training.

Zach… Patrick blinked. Why hadn't he been thinking about his brother? After all, that was the reason he was out here. Well, one of the reasons. But lately, with everything else going on, it might have made sense why his kidnapped brother was maybe the last thing on his mind. But that wasn't right.

His thoughts were interrupted when a loud bang echoed inside the fuselage, making Patrick sit up.

"What was that?" Patrick asked, just as the Vertibird started to violently move back and forth, throwing Patrick back and forth in his seat.

Another loud boom made the aircraft heave in the air, followed by a loud shatter of glass and hurricane force wind blowing into the Vertibird. One of the pilots screamed, his voice piercing the roar of the engines and booms and bullet ricochets on the armored hull. But it went silent a moment later.

A bunch of masks dropped from the ceiling. Colonel Granger grabbed the one in front of him and put it over his face. He motioned to Patrick to put on his mask. Patrick reached up for the rubber face covering, and struggled for a moment, unsure how it was to work. Somehow, in the panic, he got the mask on, and breathed in air, though it was clammy and tinted with rubber.

The aircraft was still flying, zig-zagging and trying to be a hard target to hit, so the other pilot must have still be in control of the aircraft. A series of beeps and whistles from the front could have only meant that things were going wrong up there.

"We're under attack!" Colonel Granger shouted to Patrick, over the engine and wind and explosions. "Just stay in your seat! If something happens…"

Another explosion, this time louder and right behind Patrick made the Vertibird shudder, and then angle to the right, before starting to spiral downwards. Patrick could feel his stomach trying to escape through his mouth, something that no one in his right mind would like to experience.

"Starboard engine gone!" Patrick thought he heard the pilot shout, but he had no idea if he said it or if it was his imagination. A moment later a loud blaring noise, just to add to the cacophony in the Vertibird, began to sound out. Colonel Granger was instinctively trying to put on the helmet for his power armor, but the air mask over his face hindered him. In anger, he just tossed it to the floor.

And then there was a crash. And then blackness.

"Patrick? Patrick!" Colonel Granger shouted as the young man's eyes began to open. "Patrick? Can you hear me?"

Patrick coughed, and flailed his arm about weakly, before trying to sit up straight.

"Whoa there," Colonel Granger said, pushing at Patrick's chest. "Don't sit up too quickly." Granger laid Patrick down. "You aren't bleeding anymore. I used a couple of your stimpaks, so you should be fine later. Just take it easy now."

"Wh-what happened?" Patrick asked.

"The Vertibird crashed. It looked like rockets were launched at us from the ground."

Patrick groaned. His entire body ached, his head throbbed, he could taste blood in his mouth, and he just wanted to lay down and sleep, if not die.

"Don't sleep on me!" Colonel Granger said, gently shaking Patrick to wake him up. "I'm not sure who shot us down, but I have a feeling it's the Brotherhood of Steel. And if they are really like the military, then they would come to investigate the crash. We gotta get out of here."

Patrick nodded weakly. "Where is my bag of stuff?"

"I got it. Some cans of food were broken, but that's really not a big concern now. We got to move!"

Colonel Granger stood up, carefully lifting Patrick up. Patrick felt dizzy, but the power armored soldier made sure Patrick didn't fall down. "Okay, let's go."

"Where?" Patrick asked, looking around. His vision was a bit blurry too, but that may be because of lightheadedness.

"I can see a farm, about half a mile away. We can just hide there for now."

Patrick nodded again, and with the help from Colonel Granger, they began to walk toward the farm. Well, Patrick was half-carried there by Granger. The power armor wasn't exactly comfortable to lean up against, but it was better than nothing. Granger grunted and strained a lot; something must have happened to the armor. After a few minutes, the full realization of what happened caught up to Patrick, and soon he was able to walk without much support.

As they got closer, Patrick could pick out the barn, an old one story bungalow farmhouse, a barbed wire fence that was just holding back the white bleached bones of animals that hadn't been alive for well over a 100 years, and the rusted remains of a car, tractor, combine and other machines. Weeds and dead trees were about the only things that grew around here, casting weird and disturbing shadows in the late afternoon sun.

"Okay, almost there." Colonel Granger said, as they avoided the barn and went straight for the house. Granger kicked the door of the house, which creaked ominously on its hinges, but didn't fall in. Patrick went in and found a couch in what must have been the living room, and he flopped onto the cushions.

"Okay, we should be safe now," Granger said, before sighing and landing on the old recliner that was right across from Patrick.

"That's the last time I fly," Patrick stated.

"I can't blame you," Colonel Granger said.

"What happened to the pilots?"

"One was killed by the explosion that shredded the instrument panel, the other died in the crash," Colonel Granger said. "They were good men, some of the best trained pilots the Enclave had."

Patrick nodded, but the adrenaline from escaping the wreck was wearing off. "So… what now?"

"We wait," Granger said. "We just stay low, wait for the Brotherhood to investigate the crash, and hope they just go away."

Patrick nodded weakly, but with a loud yawn, he laid down on the couch and fell asleep.

When Patrick woke up, it was dark in the house, and it was hard to see much of anything. While he still ached, he felt a lot better. And it didn't feel like anything was broken. He looked around the place, and found Granger sitting next to a broken window, his big blue glowing gun, which Patrick learned earlier was a Tesla gun he called the "Red Alert," on the window sill pointed outwards. The Enclave soldier was scanning the fields and the farmyard, though nothing had really happened as far as he could tell.

Patrick quietly rolled off the couch, and snuck his way over to the Colonel, who turned around and nodded to Patrick before turning back to standing sentry.

"How are things?" Patrick whispered.

"Quiet. I think I saw some people at the Vertibird, but I don't know who." Granger yawned. "Thank God for the Med-X. I'd have passed out by now."

"Isn't it addictive?" Patrick asked. He noticed Granger was twitching a little bit.

"Oh yeah. But once I get back to the Enclave, I can talk to the doctors there. They know how to remove addictions. Some kind of shot or something."

Patrick never heard it being possible to get rid of addictions that easy, but the Enclave had a lot of advanced stuff, so who knew?

Patrick slunk away again, going to his bag that Granger brought along, and searched for some food. The rusty tin cans of Pork 'n Beans had broke, spilling their contents over his stuff, as had one of the bottles of Nuka Cola, much to Patrick's disgust. But there were a few boxes of other stuff like Cram and Fancy Lads which would be enough for a meal. Sliding back to Colonel Granger, Patrick gave him some food and the bottle of Nuka Cola that wasn't broken. Granger took them with a nod, and ate slowly, still keeping his eyes out the window.

Patrick took some bites out of the bland, dried, barely edible snacks out of one package as he looked through his Pip Boy again. There had been that note from General Stokes, so maybe he had something to say.

He noticed a note from a computer at Minot, so he selected it, opening up a bunch of white text on the green screen.

Mr. Morrison, it began; I really don't feel comfortable trusting an Assiniboian. However, I think you should hear this anyway.

That guy, Speaker Graham, cannot be trusted. I knew the Graham family from before the war. Big landowners and politicians from Louisiana, been in Congress since before the Civil War. They are ruthless, greedy, and will let nothing get in their way. I know, because my father and eldest brother was targeted by Congressman Sylvester Graham in 2069, and financially ruined. I was in the army, a Major at the time, so I could only watch as my family was destroyed, my brother commit suicide after being divorced and lost his business and my dad suffer a heart attack.

Now you might think this is the ramblings of some old coot who should have been dead 140 years ago, but the Graham's are never to be trusted. He's most likely planning on taking over Assiniboia. While I may not like you guys, I'd rather have Canadians there than Graham.

I have no idea who that Secretary of Defense is, but stay close to him. He might be the only person who can rein him in. If Graham does do something, Minot AFB would be ready to help Assiniboia to stop him. Just radio us, and we can come in guns blazing.

God Speed, Mr. Morrison.

General Zachary Stokes.

Patrick closed the file on his Pip Boy, thinking about what he just read. He knew that Speaker Graham was a bit power hungry, and seemed to be totally disconnected from reality and happy about it, but was he really willing to overthrow Assiniboia?

Patrick had no answers about that.

A distant rumble caught Patrick's attention, and an orange light filled the room through the window that Colonel Granger was looking out.

"Damn, the Vertibird just blew up," Colonel Granger said. "Don't know if that's an engine thing or if the Brotherhood did it."

Patrick went back to the window and looked out, but the fireball had faded, and now only a few orange flames and dark smoke, partially visible from the moon could be seen from the crash.

"I don't know… crap!" Patrick exclaimed. A bright white light swiftly moved over the prairie. Patrick ducked, unsure what he just saw.

"Flashlight?" Colonel Granger asked. "Haven't seen one of those in a long time."

"Never heard of it," Patrick said. "But what does it mean?"

"Well, it just shines light so people can see in the dark." Colonel Granger said. "So… I'm guessing they are looking for something."

"Us?"

Colonel Granger didn't reply. But when the light swooped by again, this time a lot closer, the Colonel ducked as well, sliding his gun down as well so it couldn't be seen.

"What do we do now?" Patrick whispered.

"Stay low, be quiet, and hope they don't come in here."

Patrick stayed low and quiet. Soon he could hear some voices, and footfalls on the dry, cracked prairie.

"You sure someone was in there?" a female voice groaned.

"I saw bootprints," a male replied. The light swung through the farmyard, a sliver of light cutting its way into the room and traced on the other wall. "Initiates are supposed to follow clues."

"You make it sound like we're those detective people rather than Brotherhood soldiers," the female voice said. She didn't sound to be much older than 18. "I want to shoot things, not go solve crimes."

"Well what if it's someone you could shoot? Would that make you happy?" the male voice asked. He may have been a couple years older, but not much.

"You saw nothing," she grumbled. "You always see things."

"Yeah, and most of the time it was something!" the man said.

"Nuh uh," the female said again.

"Oh shut up sis." The light swung over the house again. "Besides, the Paladin's like it when we take initiative."

"You don't even know what initiative is," the girl replied.

"Well, whatever it is, it's supposed to be a good thing," the boy replied, coming right up to the broken window and peering inside. Patrick and Colonel Granger did their best to not move. The Brotherhood soldier walked right up to the window, his hand even grabbing hold of the windowsill where the Red Alert had been only a few minutes before. Patrick hoped he didn't look in, or down...

The soldier sighed, and stepped back. "Fine, there isn't anything here. Better get back before everyone goes back."

"Told ya," the female said, most likely with a smirk on her face.

"Shut up!" the boy said, punching the girl on the shoulder.

"Ow! Stop that!"

"Or what?"

The bickering and arguing faded away, the footfalls getting quieter (though not the voices for the longest time), before finally a soft wind over the prairie whistling through the dead trees and grasses replaced their voices.

Patrick took a deep breath, and his entire body shuddered at the close call. He looked over to the Colonel, who also gave a sigh of relief.

"Well, that was close," he said.

"Yeah. Well, I can take over for sentry if you want some sleep."

Colonel Granger shrugged. "Might also want to figure out where we are on that Pip Boy of yours, and how far from Bismarck we are."

Patrick nodded, and Colonel Granger slunk away, his power armor rattling a bit more than it should have. Hopefully it could be fixed.

But Patrick turned around to the window, and pulled out the assault rifle he had, and rested it on the window sill, and began his long, quiet survey of the outside world.

Pip-Boy Infotracker Note #1284

"Vertibird" Takes Off, Promising Revolution in US Army - GNR News, September 8, 2075

The first public demonstration of the VB-02 Vertical Take Off and Landing (VTOL) took place at an undisclosed location today. Galaxy News Radio was among some selected news outlets, military staff, and members of the public who won a special draw invited to view the new aircraft in action, and it was an impressive display of aeronautics and American power that's sure to make the Red Chinese quake in their boots!

Known as the Vertibird, the VB-02 is capable of taking off and landing like a normal helicopter, but is better designed to survive enemy fire, provide rapid deployment of soldiers and material quickly to the front lines, and provide fire support.

"It's an all-in-one package," Air Force General Chester Monroe told the press at the press conference after the demonstration. "It's capable of almost everything that the military requires in a short range aircraft: survivability, firepower, and transport abilities."

General Monroe refused to answer any questions about cost overruns, saying instead that the "price of our modern security" cannot be placed in any concrete dollar amounts.

The Vertibird program has already cost close to $10 trillion dollars in the prototyping and testing phase, and could cost a further $30 trillion by the time the VB-02 fully enters service in 2085.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

When the sun finally came up the next morning, Patrick and Colonel Granger were huddled over the small screen of the Pip-Boy on Patrick's arm, looking at the map provided.

"So, if we are here, I'm guessing we are about… eighty kilometers from Bismarck," Colonel Granger said, tapping the screen with his metal covered hand. "So, that's a good three days of walking, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, makes sense," Patrick said. "So long as we don't run into anything dangerous." He sighed. "This is where I wish I had Demon to ride."

"Ahh, walking will do you some good!" Colonel Granger said, standing up.

"What about your power armor?" Patrick asked.

"Well, a couple movement servos were damaged, but I think I managed to jury rig them to work. I'm not an engineer, but I know how to fix my own power armor."

"Then we should get going," Patrick said, turning off the map and shouldering his backpack. "Basically just got to go south."

It took a while, but eventually in their generally south direction, they found a road, ND Road 200, that lead straight south. It was just like most of the old paved roads in Assiniboia; old, broken pavement, overgrown for long stretches by dead grass and nearly impassable in places where cars ended their journeys or bridges had collapsed. However, it still served as a fairly accurate trail to determine where to go, so the two men followed it.

Around lunch time, having traveled 15 kilometers and dealt with a few wild animals as they came across them, they both stopped for a quick bite to eat. Colonel Granger, a bit twitchy and stifling groans of pain for the past kilometer, took a chance to inject himself with another Med-X.

"Do you have enough of those?" Patrick asked.

"I don't know. I hope so," Colonel Granger said, carefully capping and placing the used needle back into a case on his power armor. "It hurts like hell if I don't have it." Patrick didn't say anything, but hoped the Colonel was right.

They got back on the road, and continued southwards. By mid-afternoon, they reached the ruins of the small town of Washburn. The town had been abandoned for a while, mostly due to radiation, and no attempts had been made to resettle it since October 2077. To the northeast was "Radiation Alley," a huge section of prairie that has impossibly irradiated, all because of Harvey Ballistic Defense Station. A pre-war US military installation, the Defense Station was the headquarters for hundreds upon hundreds of nuclear missile silos. While there had been many silos built throughout the US in the 1960s, most of those were later abandoned during the Resource Wars, due to the cost of maintaining 100 year old silos, the long distances between them, and the possibility of Chinese sabotage and anti-war protesters possibly being able to overwhelm and take over the silos made the risk of them all being destroyed at once in a first strike not as big as a concern. But that meant that the enemies of the US knew where the silos were, and so hundreds of nuclear weapons were detonated in the area, leaving the area too irradiated for anyone to survive. If there was resources and treasure in the old military installations, perhaps only ghouls will ever know, but even they tell of horrors and abominations deep in the center of the place, so very few of them would even go there.

The deadly winds from Radiation Alley could shift at any moment, sending dangerous fallout in any direction. Right as Patrick and Colonel Granger were reaching Washburn, the wind came from the North, and the Geiger counter on the Pip-Boy began to tick for the first time.

"Ohh, this won't be good," Patrick said. He knew the stories of Radiation Alley, mostly as ghost stories that he and his friends told, or the tales that travelers in the caravans that used to come from the south to Melita would tell, all of people traveling south, only for the radiation storms to suddenly come up, flay their skin from their flesh, and turn them into walking dead men, monsters or ghouls that lost all ability to reason and hatred of everything, if they didn't die immediately from the lethal doses of rads.

"So, if the wind is blowing that way, we won't be able to take the 83 Highway straight to Minot," Patrick said looking at his Pip-Boy map as Colonel Granger helped himself to another Med-X. "We'll have to cross the river and head south from there."

"Fair enough," Colonel Granger said. "Should be easy."

The river they crossed was the mighty Missouri River, according to the rusted sign leading up to the bridge. It was only a fraction of it's old width, if the old river banks and where the ruined bridge supports were located was any indication. It was fairly simple to get across it though, and after squelching through the mud and slow flowing water, Patrick and Colonel Granger were on their way again, heading further south.

A couple hours later they stopped as the sun began to set, and made a small camp, using the hulk of a half collapsed barn as a shelter. After a small meal, Patrick took guard duty while the tired and shaky Colonel Granger was the first to go to sleep, but once again only after he had a Med-X.

The next morning the Colonel was in very rough shape. The spasms were more frequent, and his pupils were contracted. It was clear that he was rapidly turning into a wreck.

"I hope everything is fine back at home," Granger mumbled to himself as they started walking again. "Been too long since I've been there…"

"What was that?" Patrick asked.

"Nothing," Granger quickly replied. "Nothing at all."

But soon it wasn't nothing. By the time they stopped for lunch, being forced to go more and more to the south west to avoid the radiation coming from Radiation Alley, Granger was turning paranoid, nervous, and completely disoriented. Trying to eat the Salsbury Steak he Patrick gave him, the Colonel clutched at his mouth and turned around to vomit. After that, he barely ate anything.

They stopped early that night in the ruins of a town called Center, just another of the many hundreds or thousands of small towns that dotted the Wasteland. The Colonel was now in constant pain. They stopped at a house that was missing its entire southern side, with the Colonel taking the bed with the mattress, most likely last used by the skeleton that was in the living room with a 10mm pistol lying beside it. Patrick picked up the pistol, and threw it into his bag to look at later.

"Do you have any more Med-X?" Patrick asked, really concerned. After all, he couldn't carry a man in forty some pounds of steel and machine.

"N-no," Granger replied. "I used the last of it last night."

"Damnit," Patrick sighed. "Well maybe there is something here."

After an hour of searching, it was clear that the house was mostly empty, except for rusty tin cans, old broken electronics, an empty medical kit, and the skeleton in the living room. Most likely the previous owner survived the war, only to go through his survival materials, and realizing nothing was left, ended up killing himself.

Patrick didn't waste any time on sympathy for the man that had been dead for over a century, and instead decided to take his chance going through the town to find something else that could help him.

Using his Pip-Boy as a light, Patrick began to scour the ruins, looking for something that could help. A feral dog digging through the ruins wasn't enough to detour Patrick, and after dealing with the vicious, possibly rabid canine after a short chase and hunt, Patrick continued his search, going through every house that he could safely enter. Eventually, after a fruitless search down the street, Patrick came to the main street, and the different stores that lined it.

The first store was electronics, and the next was a gas station, with the pumps long gone, possibly removed before the Great War due to the lack of fuel. A clothing shop, a furniture store, a grocery long since emptied.

Finally, in the last store on the street, he found it. It looked like any of the other brick faced stores he had seen so far, but on the street in front of the door was a fallen, broken sign that at one point would have been lit up with some neon saying "Pharma-Mart," the brand name of a chain of drug stores in the old US and north of the border as well.

Patrick tried the door, but it was locked. With a sigh, Patrick took a deep breath, and crashed into the door. The rotten wood and the rusted hinges separated. The door fell inward, collapsing in on itself, allowing Patrick to get into the store.

"Hey!" A female shouted, making Patrick lookup. Three people, two women and a man, stood next to a complicated contraption on the store's counter. They were wearing hastily patched together armor, with pieces of metal and leather and cloth holding it all together. However, they all had one thing in common: they all had a black symbol of the Brotherhood of Steel painted on.

"Oh shit!" the man shouted, pulling out his gun, and fired it at Patrick. Patrick dashed into the corner of the store, siding among the rubble, broken bottles and boxes until he was sure he was protected from the oncoming hail of fire. Among the familiar sound of metal and brass and the click of a trigger being pulled repeatedly, there was also the shorter, sharper zaps of a laser weapon, making Patrick groan. He really didn't want to have to face that right now!

Patrick pulled out his .44, making sure it was fully loaded, before peeking around the corner. He saw the side of one of the Brotherhood women from the waist down, and fired a couple shots. One bullet hit her in the thigh, making her cry out and fall down. Patrick was sure he didn't kill her, but just incapacitating her was all he needed right now.

The other two looked at her, and the other woman, who had the laser pistol, noticed Patrick and began to fire at him, the red streaks of energy scorching the shelving and walls around where Patrick had been, leaving black char marks and whiffs of smoke where they struck.

Patrick had ducked back around and went to the other side of the shelving, and took three shots at the man, but none of them hit. He ducked behind the counter.

Patrick quickly moved to another shelving unit, getting a better sight of the woman with the laser pistol, who was reloading her gun. Patrick shot up, and fired at her. The bullet missed, but she dropped the laser pistol and energy cells she was loading, leaving her momentarily defenseless. Patrick tried to fire again, but the click of an empty chamber reminded him that he used all six bullets. With a groan, Patrick reached for the 10mm on his other holster, and pulled it out, and managed to get a shot off there before the two standing Brotherhood soldiers managed to start firing again.

"Jesus Christ," one of the Brotherhood soldiers shouted. "I bet this is that fucking Auxiliary!"

"Oh shut up," the other guy shouted.

Patrick ducked down again, before peering around the corner. Before he could figure out where they were, he was forced back from the combination of lasers and bullets. Shaking his head with a groan, Patrick reached for the assault rifle he had been lugging around for a while. Patrick took a deep breath, and stood up again.

This time Patrick didn't bother aiming, just pulled the trigger in the general direction of the two Brotherhood soldiers firing at him. He moved the gun back and forth like one of the mechanical swathers he used on the farm, just a lot louder, especially in the confined space of the store. Patrick closed his eyes from the flash and wished he could close his ears. But the 24 bullets in the magazine ran out quickly, and soon there was only a click click click of the trigger hitting empty air.

The room was deadly quiet after Patrick let go of the trigger. It took a moment for Patrick to even remember to breath. He exhaled, before looking back over at the where the two soldiers had been standing around the counter.

Red smeared the walls behind the counter, and the man and the woman he had been firing at were lying on the ground motionless. Looking closer, Patrick saw that they weren't that old. Maybe 18 or 20, but not much older. And he just killed them...

A muffled groan caught Patrick's attention. He quickly switched his empty magazine for a new one, then carefully walked to the counter, keeping his gun up in case something happened.

The first girl, the one Patrick shot in the leg, was pinned under the body of the dead man, making it impossible for her to get out.

"Who… who are you?" She asked Patrick, her voice weak.

"I… I'm the Auxiliary," he replied.

The woman's eyes went wide. "The Auxiliary from Assiniboia?"

"Yes."

She continued to stare at him, her mouth agape, fear in her eyes. "I… I thought you were just a story that the other Initiates were telling."

"Oh? Really now?" This was news to Patrick.

"They say that he's a powerful warrior, the strongest in Assiniboia. He's wiped out raiders and bandits single handedly, uncovered Brotherhood secret missions, killed a thousand people before they even know it in the dead of the night." The Brotherhood soldiers voice grew more distant and cold. "A cold hearted man, driven to his goal of destruction and chaos. Someone that can never be stopped."

Patrick blinked. Did they really think about that about him? Had he become the monster?

"I'm just looking for my brother," Patrick said, trying to explain. "I just want to find my brother."

But it was too late. The woman's eyes had closed, her limbs had gone limp and her chest no longer went up and down with each breath.

Patrick took a step away, the words that the Brotherhood soldier told him. Was he really becoming a monster, a vicious killer? He was just looking for his brother! Right? Like, sure the Brotherhood couldn't be trusted, but the three soldiers he had gunned down were kids, not one of them older than he was. They were most likely born into the Brotherhood, or captured as infants from tribals and raised to be part of the Brotherhood. And they shot first. Everyone he dealt with shot first. Right? Was he just trying to justify it now?

Patrick sighed. He couldn't dwell on this. He had to keep going, try to find his brother, bring him home.

But one step at a time. He had to get help for Colonel Granger right now.

He looked over at the contraption on the counter. It looked like a rather large gun, with multiple barrels arranged in a circular pattern, with a large metal box at the back. Patrick saw a similar kind of gun when the Melita Militia had a training day, and a battalion of regular soldiers came to participate. They pulled one of those along, mounted on a sleipnir drawn carriage. The gun, which one of the soldiers proudly called a Gatling gun, could fire several hundred shots a second, mowing down anything in its path. But this looked a bit smaller, and it had handles. Could someone really carry it? The size and weight of the sleipnir drawn gun, and the fact that it could fire enough bullets to make the wheeled carriage actually move backwards seemed to prove that it couldn't. But, who knew?

This gun looked like it was mostly in pieces, maybe so that it could be fixed. Some tools around the gun leant some support to that thought.

But it didn't concern Patrick too much. It wasn't like he was going to be able to carry the fifty pounds of steel on his back with the other guns, food and supplies he had, much less be able to use it in a situation, or even repair it without any knowledge.

Instead Patrick focused on looking for some supplies in the store, something to help Colonel Granger. The shelves were mostly empty, but there was a backroom behind a counter where medicine would have been dispensed from. The door was a simple wooden door with a lock. Patrick sighed, regretting not learning how to lockpick a door (a skill offered by a rather shady trader to him one time, but one he declined due to the possible implications).

After a brief look for a key turned up nothing, Patrick sighed and took his 10mm pistol and fired at the lock. With a loud bang, metal crashing on metal, and then a deathly silence, Patrick tried at the door and it swung open, the rusty lock having shattered after being shot at. He entered the room after turning on his PipBoy light, and saw several metal boxes stacked one on top of the other. Patrick went to the first one and pried off the top, to find a box full of Stimpaks. He grabbed all of them, dumping them into his bag, just to be on the safe side. The next box was empty, and the one after that was as well. There was some Rad-Away and Rad-X in a couple other boxes, much to his annoyance. Apparently there was no Med-X in this store.

But tucked into a corner under some broken plaster and wood was another box, seemingly ignored even before the War of 2077. Patrick brushed the ruble away and opened the box, to see several tin containers with "Fixer" engraved onto the lid. Patrick picked one up, and it sounded like small marbles rattling around in a tin can. He opened one of them and a small piece of paper nearly fell out. Patrick managed to grab it, not letting any of the pills inside of the container fall out. Looking at the paper, Patrick read the instructions, and a smile crossed his lips as he realized he just stumbled on what he needed.

Colonel Granger groaned softly as Patrick returned with several tins of the Fixer drug, and knelt down beside the pain wracked Enclave Colonel. "Is that you, William?"

"William?" Patrick asked. "Who's William?" Maybe he was hallucinating now...

"Oh, Auxiliary!" Granger exclaimed. "Did you find something?"

"Yeah. I think I found something to help you," Patrick said. "Can you sit up to take some of these?"

It took a few minutes to get Colonel Granger up, and the helmet off. Colonel Granger was still in pain, but was starting to handle the pain better, if just because his body was somewhat adapted to the agony after dealing with it for hours.

"Okay, take these," Patrick said, dropping four pills into the Enclave soldier's hand. He also produced a bottle of pure water to give Colonel Granger to wash down the medicine.

"Hopefully they still work. They are 140 years old."

"Thanks," Colonel Granger croaked, but he soon laid down again and fell back asleep.

Patrick rummaged through the ruins of the town for a while, but every time he saw the store on the street corner, the words of that Brotherhood soldier came back up in his mind.

A monster. The strongest warrior in Assiniboia. Cold hearted.

"No. That's not me," he growled under his breath. "I've killed bandits. Drug dealers. Slavers. Bastards that try to make life miserable for others!"

You just killed three kids, his conscience reminded him.

"They would have killed me!" Patrick exclaimed, closing his eyes tight. "They… they…"

Patrick paused in the middle of the street. A small breeze from the north brought cold air, making Patrick shudder. Otherwise, it was quiet. A coyote howled in the distance. Dust was kicked up and swirled around him. No one would answer him. No one could answer him.

He eventually went back to the house where Colonel Granger was fast asleep. Patrick unslung his backpack beside another bed in that room, and slipped his .44 Magnum out of it's holster and placed it beside his head when he slept.

Then he just lay there, the words and acquisitions in his mind starting all over again, now that he wasn't doing anything. He tried to argue, tried to find a reason for this, but tiredness began to catch up, and suddenly he was asleep.

The sun rose to the east the next morning, stirring Patrick awake as the bright rays of the sun hit his face. He opened one eye, shielding the sun from glaring down on him. The lack of walls or a roof made it hard to block the sun.

Patrick sighed and rolled out of bed, stretching to work out the kinks in his body. The mattress he found in the rubble was weathered and beat up, springs poking out of the fabric if they weren't completely missing. It was better than nothing, and had he not stayed awake half the night wrestling with his mind, he would have had the best sleep in weeks.

Colonel Granger took a bit to get up, but when he finally did, the shaking was gone, as well as the nervousness and anxiety. He still had bags under his eyes, and looked famished.

"Man, that Fixer sure is amazing stuff, isn't it?" He said to Patrick as he scarfed down a third box of pre-war food Patrick had been carrying around.

"Yeah, you look pretty good," Patrick said with a smile. "By the way, who was this William?"

"What?" Colonel Granger's face became strict. "Where did you hear that?"

"You said it last night when I gave you the drug."

"Oh." Colonel Granger said, though he was clearly uncomfortable with this question. "Well… uhh… he's a… friend. Very close friend."

Patrick gave a small "hmmm," but left it at that.

"Anyway, should we continue on?" Colonel Granger asked, changing the subject.

Before they left, Patrick took Colonel Granger to the Pharma-Mart, to see the Minigun. Colonel Granger carefully looked over the weapon.

"It's not in that great of shape," Colonel Granger said with a shrug. "Most likely jammed in several places, the barrels are wore out, and there is so much rust all over it." He shook his head. "It's worth more as scrap metal than anything else now, it looks like."

So they left it, and carried on south. They walked an entire day, doing their best to avoid anything that may look like Brotherhood of Steel patrols, traders that might give away their location, farmsteads and ruined villages and towns. Radgophers and feral dogs were problems, but nothing the power armored soldier and the experienced Wasteland traveler couldn't handle. There was even a small group of Radstags wandering around, but they ran off before Patrick could line up a shot to take one of them down.

"Radstag meat is one of the best delicacies you can get," Patrick explained to Colonel Granger. "You don't see them too often this far south though." The Enclave soldier would just have to take his word for it.

The weather was slightly warmer here than up in Assiniboia. The Great Midwest Desert was still a hundred or more miles away, but it still made North Dakota warmer than old Manitoba, which had a big glacier to keep things cooler.

They stopped to make camp right out on the bald prairie, and took turns standing guard, watching the moon and stars slowly, ever so slowly, go from one side of the sky to another. Patrick turned on his Pip-Boy, trying to see if he could get the DBS, and maybe some news. But he was too far south (or the Brotherhood was blocking it too well), so he was stuck with some Brotherhood radio station.

The music wasn't bad, and was pretty much the same selections that DBS would have had: 1950s big band, early rock and roll, and country songs, the experimental electro-tunes of the early 21st century (which he despised for their awful, jarring sounds), then the revived bands from the decades before the War of 2077, which sounded, sang, and performed just like those from the 1950s. However the Brotherhood seemed to enjoy classical music as well, and many of the pieces they picked were rather heartfelt, sending shivers down Patrick's spine.

"You are listening to Steel Radio," a female voice said. "I'm Scribe Ingrid Vansted with a very important announcement for all civilians and members of the Brotherhood of Steel.

"Assiniboia continues it's posturing in North Dakota, threatening to declare war on the Brotherhood at any moment if our brave Knights dare to get close to Fargo or try to aid the freedom fighters who seek to rid their nation of their oppressors. Elder-General Ezekiel gave a response for Steel Radio."

"This is a warning to the degenerate, corrupt, and lazy northerners of the so-called Dominion," a deep, gravel filled voice snarled through the radio, making a chill run down Patrick's spine. "The Brotherhood will not tolerate any slander or physical attack on the any member or land of the Brotherhood, and will take it as a declaration of war. And we will fight to liberate the people of North Dakota oppressed by Assiniboia!"

The female scribe came back on. "A mysterious flying craft was destroyed near Radiation Alley. Two men in strange, non-Assiniboian uniforms were found in the wreckage. There are reports two passengers escaped, and one was in a strange looking pair of power armor. They are considered very dangerous, and you must let Brotherhood soldiers deal with him. Despite our peace loving nature, the Brotherhood must remain vigilant and strong to fight any threat, as we have done against the Calculator and the robot menace. Report any suspicious activity to a Paladin, Knight, or Scribe, and it shall be investigated. Only you can prevent the fire's of anarchy and espionage."

The music returned, but Patrick shut off the radio. He was one of those suspicious activities, and he didn't want to think of what would happen if he was captured. Nothing good.

Then again, it did take his mind off the kids he shot earlier…

PipBoy InfoTracker Note #920

Radio: Lifeline of the Wasteland

Essay by Loretta Armstrong, 2189

As us survivors of the War of 2077 struggle to rebuild and find some semblance of safety and security in the Wasteland, there is one great pre-war technology that has not only survived, but thrived. It's united communities, provided information, warned them of dangers, and provided much needed amusement and relief.

I am, of course, talking about radios.

Radio stations were everywhere in the Old World. Old records indicate that there were thousands all over, ranging from big national networks like Galaxy News Radio and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation to smaller, community focused stations. Many towns had two or three, often broadcasting different genres of music to listeners. Most were sponsored through advertisements, of which only a few recorded examples exist.

When the bombs dropped, many of the stations broadcasted emergency alerts to warn the people of approaching Armageddon. Few people heeded the call, thinking it was another test or a false alarm (the National Emergency System's false alarm of 2071 was still on many people's minds). Most were destroyed or abandoned after the bombs fells, silencing the few radios that survived, only to broadcast static or a station that had been operated solely by computers and independent power systems. Only those lucky enough to survive in areas distant from targets, or in the Vaults, were treated to music provided by their radios or PipBoys.

But almost as soon as the radiation began to drop and people emerged from their shelters, those enthusiasts of amatuer radio systems, "ham radios" as many call them, fixed their systems, and tried to make contact with others. While few answered the calls, some who had the same idea did. The radiation in the atmosphere made it difficult to have long conversations, but survivors were able to contact each other, and soon they were sharing info and helping each other. By the 2100s, a continent spanning ham radio system was running, relaying information back and forth of the status of loved ones, dangers and weather. This allowed people in Washington DC, with their reborn Galaxy News Radio, to communicate with people in Los Angeles, the infamous "Boneyard" and part of the New California Republic, and all points in between.

It wasn't until the establishment of new towns, and the rebuilding of cities like Winnipeg, that new radio systems were established. The Dominion Broadcasting Service in Assiniboia is a prime example, used to send news and weather, entertainment and music to all corners of the sprawling nation. Many small towns tried to emulate the DBS, or more likely joined them to extend their range further. On a good evening, and with full power, the DBS' powerful antenna, capable of 150,000 watts, could be heard in Ronto, the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, and down the Mississippi River as far south as Kansas and Oklahoma. Normally the DBS operates closer to 50,000 watts, which still allows it to cover all of Assiniboia and reach past the Angle in the East, near the ruins of Regina in the west, and south of Fargo.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

With Center behind them, Patrick and Colonel Granger continued to head south.

The problem was that Bismarck, the former capital of North Dakota, and where the plans for Project Pegasus might be, was to the south-east.

"Why do you want us going this way?" Patrick said. "We'd be almost to Bismarck by now."

Colonel Granger paused. "Well, we are actually really close to a Vault."

"A Vault? Which one?"

Granger hesitated for a moment, before he sighed. "Vault 53. I was told to go find it after making contact with Minot."

"I've heard of Vault 53," Patrick said. "Not much though. It was an American Vault, and the people that did talk about it had never been there themselves."

"Well, if we are lucky, we can get some supplies," Colonel Granger said. "One way or another, I'm sure we can."

So, for another day, they walked directly south. Patrick was glad that maybe, just maybe, the long walk would be over. All this walking reminded Patrick how much he relied on Demon and the trains to get around. His feet and legs ached, his backpack felt heavier than ever, he was tired, hungry and thirsty… If he never had to walk more than three feet on his own when this was over, he would be quite content.

"Just got to get to the Vault," he kept mumbling to himself, convincing himself to keep going. If it was anything like Vault H, then he might get a nice, temperature controlled place to sit, kick up his feet, and relax…

But something was nagging him. Something that he felt like he had forgotten to get. He had looked through the notes on his Pip-Boy, but hadn't found anything that would tell him what it was. It gnawed on him, like a radgopher chewing on his mind. It was something important…

Patrick asked Colonel Granger, who shrugged. "As far as I know, we're just going here, making contact with the survivors, and see if the Enclave can offer help to them."

"What do you mean survivors? Weren't the Vaults supposed to protect people?" Patrick asked.

Colonel Granger was about to say something, but didn't. It made Patrick a bit suspicious, but he decided not to push it. If they got to the Vault, and all was hunky-dory, then there wouldn't be a problem at all. Of course, if there was, then he might be able to get answers.

That was, if they could find the Vault.

"What do you mean you don't know where it is?" Patrick asked Colonel Granger, completely incredulous that he might have been sent out here for no reason, or at least with no idea where their target was.

"I was told possible coordinates, but not exact locations. Besides, it could be buried for all I know," Colonel Granger replied. "The Enclave leadership just loves showing off it knows stuff, but then doesn't actually tell you what it is!"

They walked a few more steps, coming up to a small hill, when Patrick stopped. "Well, why don't we ask the town over there?" he asked, pointing to collection of buildings, laid out in a grid like pattern, and made of a much better quality than just scavenged materials nailed together, which a lot of survivor communities always looked like. Large fields spread out in all directions all around the small town, with different colored fields of crops that Patrick couldn't quite recognize from there they were standing, but he did notice the apple trees all growing around the town. Here and there sun flashed on metal, and looking closer Patrick could see an entire workforce of Mister Handy robots tending and caring to the fields.

"Well, they seem to have it all together," Colonel Granger said. "I don't know if I've ever seen a town in Assiniboia that perfectly laid out.."

"Well, they should know where Vault 53 is," Patrick said, walking down the other side of the hill. "Let's go."

They didn't even get to the barbed wire fence strung up around the first field when three armed guards showed up, weapons drawn. They all had black uniforms and helmets with a plastic face cover that may have stopped a baseball from hitting the face, but most likely not a bullet or a knife. Metal and leather fashioned into shoulder pads, arm and leg guards may have provided a bit more protection, but Patrick questioned exactly how much protection it would have if he shot his .44 at them, much less his assault rifle.

"Halt!" they barked in unison, pointing laser pistols at Patrick and Colonel Granger.

Patrick and Colonel Granger, both of whom would have had more powerful weapons, and one of whom was in enough metal to protect him from a missile, stopped.

"State your business here," one of them demanded, his pistol pointed at Colonel Granger.

"Where exactly is here?" Patrick asked.

The guard glanced at Patrick. "Why should we tell you?"

"Well, we are trying to find Vault 53," Colonel Granger replied.

All three of them lifted their guns up and aimed it at the power armored man. "Vault 53 is strictly off limits."

"You are from the Vault?" Patrick asked.

"Why should it concern you?" The guard growled.

Colonel Granger and Patrick looked at each other. Patrick was quite confused and didn't know what to say. Colonel Granger had his helmet on, so it would be hard to tell what he was thinking.

Colonel Granger turned to them, and lifted the helmet off of his head. "Well, I'm from the Enclave, the remnant of the former United States, and I've been sent to check on the Vault project."

The guard that was doing the talking growled. "We don't need the old United States. What the hell have they done for us? We don't need anyone. Now get out!"

Patrick raised his hands. "Look, can we at least talk to the Overseer? This is important for a lot of people. A lot of very powerful, well armed people that laugh at laser pistols and gatling guns."

The talking guard seemed to hesitate before barking again. "Well… one moment."

He turned around, and got the radio attached to his soldier, and spoke into it, quietly enough that Patrick couldn't hear what he was talking about. After a moment, he turned around. "Very well, the Overseer will see you." he turned to Colonel Granger. "You can come in to, but you have to leave your Power Armor right here."

Colonel Granger nodded, and released the mechanism to open up his power armor. With the whir of servos and gears and the clicks of locks unlocking, the back side of the suit opened up, exposing Colonel Granger to the elements for the first time since… Patrick couldn't remember the last time he saw the Enclave soldier without the big suit of metal and electronics on. It was most likely before they left the Enclave Vault, if Patrick had to guess.

Colonel Granger stepped clear of the complex mechanical device he had been willingly imprisoned in, and walked around to Patrick. His legs wobbled a bit, and he maintained a wider stance, mostly likely due to how he had to ride in the power armor. The power armor closed up right behind, locking up tight.

"Can anyone else get into that?" Patrick asked.

"Nope. All suits of power armor are biometrically locked, so only I can access it," Colonel Granger said, his voice softer, which surprised and momentarily disoriented Patrick due to days of hearing the Colonel speak with the helmet on. "Won't have to worry about these yokels taking it."

The guards growled, but didn't raise their weapons, which relieved Patrick. He sure didn't want to explain to the Enclave why and how their top military leader died. If he got the chance. The guards reluctantly took Patrick and Colonel Granger past the fenced fields and orchards toward the town they saw earlier.

Patrick looked around, his farmers eye judging the crops all around him. "I've never seen plants like this," Patrick said, looking closer at something that looked like Manitograin, one of the radiation and weather resistant crops that was from the University of Manitoba. However, it being nearly June, the fact that it was barely sprouted in some places, and a miniscule green plant in others concerned Patrick.

"Wheat, barley, oats. We got it from the GECK," one of the guards said.

"Shut up!" The lead guard said. "Don't tell the outsider any of our secrets."

"Hey, I'm a farmer from up north. And, well, these crops don't look too healthy."

There was a long silence. The guards didn't say anything, and Patrick decided not to push them. But he noticed that the rows of vegetables in some fields, and fruit trees in others with apples, pears, and lemons all seemed smaller, thinner, and less healthy than anything Patrick had heard about, especially since there didn't seem to be anything resembling a Greenhouse like there was in Winnipeg.

They went past the last line of fences, and Patrick and Colonel Granger found themselves on a dirt road, with wooden, brick and adobe buildings on either side of the street. Most of the buildings looked well weathered, having stood up for decades under the harsh conditions of the wasteland for quite a long time. Men, women, and children all wore the blue and yellow jumpsuits with "53" on the back, though some had hats, glasses, leather armor, even jackets and suits. Most of the clothing, even the vault suits, seemed old, frayed, and patched together. A feeling of general dishevelment and tiredness, not to mention wear and tear, seemed to settle on everyone in the settlement.

They all noticed Patrick and Colonel Granger, outsiders in their midst. Soon a hundred eyes were focused on them, watching every move. Young children shied away and hid behind their parent's legs, while the pre-teens watched in fascination as these people without the Vault-Tec suit walked by, escorted by three of the town's guards. The adults were almost all hostile, glaring and angry at the intruders into their lives.

Patrick felt uncomfortable under all these eyes, and instead eventually decided to focus on looking at the ground. Maybe if he looked away, he wouldn't realize that everyone was watching him. But that wasn't as easy as it could have been, with all the nagging thoughts of what people would see in him, a dusty traveler from a far away land, and someone that has just arrived unannounced and very unwelcomed. He really did just want to leave, and never come back.

But he had a job to do. He took a deep breath, squared up his shoulders, and continued marching to wherever the guards were leading them

They were led to a long, low, one story white adobe building with a sign, fading and not touched up for decades, hanging over the door with "HARDINGVILLE COUNCIL BUILDING" in large letters. One of the guards opened and held the door open for Patrick and Colonel Granger to enter the building, and into a large chamber. Row upon row of chairs and benches were lined up, pointing toward an upraised stage, where a podium was set front and center.

Electric lights hung from the ceiling, but most were burnt out and hadn't been replaced, and instead candles or lanterns on the floor or hanging from the roof provided the only illumination in the building. Wooden boxes and papers were strewn everywhere, and several rusty metal crates with VAULT-TEC and its logo underneath of it were stacked along one wall, though in such a haphazard way Patrick was afraid of possibly standing under them.

The guards lead Patrick and Colonel Granger to a side door, and into a hallway that ran along the back of the hall, and then down to the end to another door.

"The Overseer is a busy person, so don't waste her time," the talkative guard warned, before opening the door.

Patrick and Colonel Granger both walked inside. Two of the guards followed inside, flanking the door on either side. Sitting behind a desk in one of the blue and yellow Vault 53 uniforms was an elderly lady, with curly grey hair and a weatherbeaten face and many wrinkles. A pair of glasses was perched on her nose, which she alternatively looked over and through as she typed away on the old terminal on her desk. The Pip-Boy on her wrist looked liked it had been turned off, which surprised Patrick, as he didn't think they ever could have been. She looked a lot like a librarian, a kindly grandmother figure.

"So you must be those outsiders," she said, glancing away from the screen for a moment. "The ones who want to go to Vault 53?"

"Yes ma'am," Patrick said. "Or, at the very least, if we can get some information."

"Call me Mrs. Kildaer," she said, finally looking away from the computer. "I didn't spend the past 29 years as the leader of this community to be addressed as 'ma'am.'" She laced that particular word with enough venom that Patrick thought he was poisoned just by hearing it. "Well if you got questions, ask them. I may answer you, if it won't endanger my people." She motioned them to sit on chairs in front of her desk.

"Okay, well what is town… Hardingville? I've never heard of it before."

"We are the descendents and former residents of Vault 53. Almost two generations now have lived here and not in that terrible hole in the ground. We built this town with the aid of a Garden of Eden Creation Kit, GECK, and have prospered ever since."

"You don't like the Vault?"

"It was atrocious!" Mrs. Killdaer exclaimed. "The construction was rushed and subpar, the machinery kept breaking down, and everyone was always tense, resigned to the fact things would keep breaking after decades of the machines doing just that, repairing walls that kept crumbling, and dealing with shortages in everything from food, clothing, to smaller creature comforts like toys and books. But little violence broke out except for the occasional fist fight, and under the leadership of the Overseers who served before me, especially my immediate predecessor, Kenny Harding, the residents of Vault 53 managed to work together and keep up spirits and persevere. The residents were able to keep it from totally failing, until something finally went wrong in the main reactor, and began to leak radiation. 100 years after our great-grandparents had been locked away in Vault 53, we came out, and Overseer Harding helped us build this town. When he died and I became Overseer, we only believed it proper to name the settlement he helped start after him."

Patrick nodded. "I have to say, the adversity you faced must have faced down there should have helped you when you came to the Wasteland."

"Oh yes. Everyone that came out of the Vault knew how to build and fix machines and buildings. I know I appreciate Vault-Tec for allowing my family to be invited to Vault 53 in 2077, but I wish they spent more time on making the Vault habitable. But we all survived, despite everything that happened. About the only thing that never failed was the water purifier."

Patrick smacked his forehead. "That's what I forgot!"

"What are you talking about?" Mrs. Kildaer asked.

"You wouldn't to happen to have a computer chip that controls a water purification system? A… vault up north needs one, and asked me to look for one." He wasn't going to bother saying it was Metigoshe, and maybe they would be willing to help another Vault.

"Hmm, I don't know. We pulled the water purification machine out of the Vault to help us, but I can look into seeing if we have an extra water chip." She scrawled something on a piece of paper. "The machinery works fine, of course, but those computer chips have a habit of breaking at the slightest opportunity." She looked up. "And what Vault is this?"

"Uh, Vault 13?" Patrick lied. "I think that's the number. Yeah, that's it. Vault 13." Mrs. Kildaer looked at Patrick, who gave a forced smile, but eventually she shrugged.

Colonel Granger cleared his throat, interrupting the conversation. "Overseer Kildaer, I've been asked by the Enclave, the Remnant of the United States Government, to offer any help needed for the American people, and restore the nation…"

She snorted. "The Enclave? Never heard of you. And why did you wait until now to suddenly show up? I don't know what your goals are, and I don't care. We've gotten along just fine without the old U. S. of A. And now you want to help us? I don't see any reason we should."

Patrick furrowed his eyebrows. "If you don't mind me saying, but it doesn't look like your crops are too healthy. Smaller, stunted, and not growing as well as they should."

Overseer Kildaer snapped her head over to Patrick. "And what makes you such a judge? This has, so far, been our most productive year yet!"

"I'm a farmer from Assiniboia, and…"

"Assiniboia," she snarled. "Another group of people claiming to 'just want to help.' Some traders came here twenty years ago, after we had built up this town from nothing, promised to set up trading routes with us. But after a couple trips, and some food and raw materials they brought here that was both of poor quality and woefully insufficient to what he asked for in return, they stopped showing up 18 years ago, right after we gave away valuable technology for them to take with us."

"That would have been when the Brotherhood of Steel declared war on Assiniboia," Patrick said. "That would explain why they caravans stopped coming."

"Oh, so the Brotherhood of Steel hates Assiniboia? Well good for them. At least they treated us with respect, damnit."

"Really? I'd have thought the Brotherhood would have demanded you turn over your technology or something."

"Oh, they were interested in us for technology when they first came here, about 2199, and asked to look at the Vault and the town, and offered to pay us for any technology they wished to take. But all we had was jury-rigged farming machines, a few cannibalized Mister Handy's, and a broken down Auto-Doc, and whatever irradiated scrap metal was in the Vault," Mrs. Kildaer explained. "They wanted to see if we had any guns or anything, but, except for those laser pistols and rifles, we had nothing they wanted. We do some trading, and at least they make sure the caravans run on time."

"So you're allied with the Brotherhood?" Patrick asked.

"We aren't allied with anyone. Hardingville can stand on it's own two legs. If there was anything that Vault 53 taught us, it was that we could only rely on people that we know and can trust. And no one here trusts anyone that doesn't wear a Vault suit."

She stood up, glaring at both Patrick and Colonel Granger. "So, since you clearly have nothing else to say, I suggest you leave immediately." She pointed to the door. "These gentlemen will take you back to the outskirts of town, and you can be on your merry way."

Patrick raised his hands. "Wait, Mrs. Kildaer. Is there anything that we, as outsiders, could do to help Hardingville? Just to show that you can trust us?"

Mrs. Kildaer was about to reply in the negative, when she stopped. "Well, actually we do have an issue."

Patrick sprung at the chance. "Whatever it is, we will help."

Mrs. Kildaer raised an eyebrow. "Well, okay. Brave of you." She sat back down behind her desk. "To the south-east, near the ruins of Bismarck, there is a… well, I really wouldn't dare call it a settlement. A smattering of undesirable neighbors. I would like you to go down there and exterminate them."

"Raiders?" Patrick asked, before scoffing. "That should be easy."

"Sure. Yes. They can be seen as raiders." She shook her head. "But deal with them. Kill them or tell them to go away, I don't care. Just do it."

She then noticed Patrick's Pip-Boy. "Where did you get that?"

"I got it from a former Vault dweller from Vault H near Winnipeg," Patrick replied.

"It would be a criminal offense here to give away a Pip-Boy, but you Assiniboians are really kooky anyway." She shrugged. "Here, I can give you a rough guess of where the settlement is." She tapped at her computer for a moment, before motioning Patrick over. She looked at his Pip-Boy, nearly twisting his arm all around, and reached for something at the back that Patrick didn't even knew he had. She pulled a white thing out of the side, attached to a long cable, and inserted it into a special dock on her computer. There was a few beeps and boops, before Patrick's screen changed from it's map to a symbol of the Vault Boy looking at his watch. "PLEASE WAIT, DOWNLOADING FROM TERMINAL."

After what felt like hours, a couple loud beeps, with the Vault Boy making it's familiar thumbs up sign, signalled that the download was completed.

"Sorry, the computers here are very slow," Mrs. Kildaer said. "We had to cannibalize every other computer in the Vault to have just one that works." She unattached the cable from her computer, and it retracted back into Patrick's Pip-Boy. "There, that should give you the coordinates. When you are done, come back here and tell me. I will see that you are rewarded." She curtly nodded, then went back to her computer, typing away at the keyboard.

"Alright, you heard the Overseer," one of the guards said. "Let's go."

Patrick and Colonel Granger were escorted back out of the town, with the silent, suspicious eyes that followed them to the council hall following them back and the Enclave soldier climbed back into his power armor.

"So that was pleasant, wasn't it?" Patrick said to Colonel Granger once they were out of earshot from the guards.

"Yeah," Colonel Granger said, but he was very quiet. The helmet he wore gave no indication as to what the reason was bothering him.

Patrick led the way, walking in the general southeast direction that the map indicated. They stopped at yet another abandoned farmhouse, opened up some pre war packaged food, and began to eat.

"So, did you get something else on your Pip Boy when you were given the map?" Colonel Granger asked, taking a bite from some Dandy Boy Apples. His helmet sat beside him, so once again Granger's voice felt odd, without the metal to muffle and distort it.

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"Well, maybe the Enclave installed something on your Pip-Boy to download other files without your knowledge," Colonel Granger admitted. "That's why it took so long to download earlier."

"Oh," Patrick replied. "How did you do that?"

"The Secretary of Defense ordered it when you were in our Vault. They gave me the same thing for my Pip-Boy, but It's kind of hard to use it when you are wearing power armor, so we decided to install it on yours as well."

"Why?"

"We didn't want it to be suspicious if I kept fiddling around with a Pip-Boy. We felt we would use you. But don't worry, the Secretary said that any information you gather, you can keep, as long as we get a copy as well. That is one of the agreements the Enclave made with Assiniboia when we went up to Winnipeg."

"I wish you told me that sooner, you know."

"Well, I wasn't going to tell you when we were in Hardingville. And there was no need to tell you sooner."

Patrick shrugged. "Fine, whatever." He lifted up his Pip-Boy, and scrolled to the notes. "Well… there is a lot here." He selected a random file.

UNABLE TO READ: FILE CORRUPTED.

Patrick selected another one. Same thing.

"Damnit, the files are no good!" Patrick said.

"Well, they are using not just old computers, but parts of a bunch of different computers. Frankly, I'm not that surprised. But there should be something."

Patrick scrolled through the list. Most of the reports that did work went back to 2177 and earlier, about the time when they were back in the Vault, according to Mrs. Kildaer. Mostly internal emails, reports on equipment malfunctions, personal diaries, and lots of other things.

Patrick sighed, and just scrolled to the bottom of the list, through hundreds of files, until he reached the very first one. July 17, 2069.

"Wow, this is old," Patrick said, opening it up.

CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL

OVERSEER EYES ONLY

ORDERS TO OVERSEER OF VAULT 53

 _Vault 53 is designed to have the equipment for all major systems of the Vault to breakdown every few months, to stress the inhabitants unduly. It is Vault-Tec's hope that the breakdowns will be minor and easily repairable, but this is not a guarantee. There will be a limited number of backup machines, tools, and replacement parts in the cargo manifest of Vault 53. It is your duty as Overseer to monitor and report every month on the condition of the Vault: the equipment, the state of the Vault, and the inhabitants, and forward them to Vault-Tec. You are not to interfere with them from being repaired as the maintenance staff see fit. Should the inhabitants somehow manage to fix a machine so it no longer breaks down, you may undo this if it will compromise data collection. Check the appendix for instructions on how to re-enable the faulty parts of machines that are accidently fixed._

 _The constant breakdowns are supposed to be beyond your control, and any efforts to try to end the experiment before the authorized date will be grounds for immediate dismissal. You may use your judgement in other matters regarding the Vault, including the number of maintenance staff you may select to serve in the Vault. It is recommended to not allow below 10% or above 45% of the residents of the Vault to have more than rudimentary knowledge in repair of the machines. Inhabitants that have a particular natural fondness for mechanical repair tasks should not be assigned to maintenance tasks, as they may discover the flaws in the machines and rectify them, endangering the experiment. Assign them tasks in farming, security and other such roles to ensure they do not have the time, energy or learned abilities to fix the machinery._

 _Under no circumstances are you to allow the Vault Residents any knowledge as to the main purpose of the Vault. You are authorized to blame Vault-Tec in either the construction, supply, or procurement for Vault 53, and any public statements you make blaming Vault-Tec will not be taken into account of your performance review._

 _Vault 53 will be allowed to open 100 years after the door is shut. The mechanism to allow the Vault Door to open will not be able to be engaged from the inside until this time, unless you receive permission from Vault-Tec to open earlier. If the inhabitants do not wish to evacuate, the Vault's nuclear reactor will go supercritical and threaten to meltdown, and will force everyone to the surface._

* * *

Patrick blinked, staring at the screen on his wrist. "What… what does this even mean?"

Colonel Granger looked up. "Hmm?"

Patrick walked over and held his Pip-Boy up for Colonel Granger, who then quickly read over the file. "Oh. Yeah…"

"Okay, so what the hell is going on? The machines were designed to break down? What the hell? Is that you thought that maybe everyone would be dead?" Patrick glared at Colonel Granger. "Can I trust you or the Enclave if you won't even give me a little smidgen of information on knowledge that I should know to make sure I won't be walking to my death?"

"Look, listen, Patrick," Colonel Granger said, waving his hands to try to calm him down. "Vault-Tec built the Vaults for a reason. While, yes, they did say it was to save a portion of the population of the US, in reality they were experiments, designed to develop new technologies, test the human spirit, morales, and behavior when under certain conditions."

"You mean… what? Seriously?" Patrick's voice cracked.

"There are 122 of them all over this nation, and only a very few are 'control' Vaults, designed to work they were advertised. Almost every other Vault had some kind of experiment."

"But if these Vaults did conduct these experiments, where is all the information supposed to go?"

"That, I don't know." Colonel Granger admitted. "Frankly, I don't think anyone in the Enclave knows. There wasn't anyone that joined my ancestors in the Vault that was from Vault-Tec. I think they had their own Vault. My bet is somewhere in the Midwest, maybe in Texas. I don't know."

Patrick just stared at Colonel Granger. "How do I know you're not lying now? Or at least keeping something from me? You've done it ever since you left your hole in the ground."

"Secrecy is the lifeblood of a government, and the Enclave is no exception. Assiniboia is no exception, I'm 100% sure."

Patrick growled. "But at least I know what my country stands for, and a pretty good idea of why they do what they do. But the Enclave? As far as I know, you guys are waiting for the best moment to try to undermine and destroy Assiniboia. How can anyone out here trust you guys? I was giving you and the Enclave the benefit of the doubt, but the more I listen, the less I can trust you."

Patrick turned around, shutting off his Pip-Boy, before slipping into his sleeping bag, turning his back on Colonel Granger.

The Enclave officer sat there, staring at Patrick's back. He took a deep breath, replaced his helmet back onto his head, grabbed his Tesla gun, and began to stand watch, to ensure the both of them survived another day. It might not be enough to reassure Patrick, but it might be a start.

PipBoy InfoTracker Note #4872

Welcome to Vault 53!

Congratulations [INSERT NAME HERE]! You and your family have been chosen to Enter Vault 53, Vault-Tec's answer to any disaster or calamity that may befall our great nation!

The purpose of Vault 53 is two fold: to ensure the survival of it's 1,500 inhabitants, and to secure the knowledge of a tough and hardy population known for their agricultural background. You and your family have been chosen due to the long history your family has had in farming, knowledge that will be sure to come in handy in the possible but unlikely chance of a total nuclear annihilation.

While in the Vault, you will be helping to maintain America's dominance in food production for the future. While most other vaults have automated food production facilities and robot controlled hydroponic farms for all their food needs, Vault 53 will use good old-fashioned farming techniques in large enclosed rooms to ensure the knowledge isn't lost. A variety of seeds, plants and livestock will be available for your use while in the Vault. But should something go wrong, don't worry: emergency food rations will be available. We recommend not using them unless needed however!

Thank you for your interest in being Prepared for the Future!™


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was a very silent walk to the raider settlement between Patrick and Colonel Granger. To break the monotony, Patrick flipped his Pip-Boy to DBS radio. It was staticky, often cut out, and was jammed by The Brotherhood of Steel every so often, but occasionally the news would come through.

"DBS News and the Winnipeg Tribune-Press held a poll last month, asking 769 people what they think of several topics of importance. For the first time in five years of Prime Minister Richard Hawkson's term, the overall perception is that Assiniboia is on the right track. Fifty-six percent of those asked said that they approve of Assiniboia's prospects, with many mentioning The Auxiliary and his actions as being a major contributor to the forward development of Assiniboia."

Patrick wondered how that came to be. He hadn't been in Assiniboia for a couple weeks, so hadn't heard what great things DBS was claiming Patrick, or rather the Auxiliary, had done. At this point he wouldn't have been surprised if they claimed he was the guy that found the lost City of The Thompas up north.

"Secretary Creighton Hawthorne of the Enclave gave a speech to the Assiniboia Legislative Assembly yesterday, saying that 'The Enclave is the natural partner of Assiniboia,' and praised the efforts of diplomats of both nations to reach a fair and equal deal to help the Wasteland and North America."

Patrick bit his lip, and looked over at Colonel Granger, walking several steps ahead of Patrick. He should have heard the radio from where he was. Colonel Granger should know what Patrick's feelings were at the moment, so it was nice that the Colonel dared not say anything, though Patrick couldn't get past the possibility that there was a reason he didn't tell Patrick.

There was some other news, mostly on issues with the Brotherhood of Steel. But soon after the announcer started talking about it, the signal was interrupted with blaring static, and it was like that for the rest of the day. Patrick did find a classical music station, one without announcers or advertising, so he just left the radio on that despite his lack of interest in the content. Maybe a pre-war station that was still running despite all the odds.

They camped out in the middle of the wasteland, and set out again the next morning. They were still quiet, barely talking to each other as they continued walking to the location marked on Patrick's Pip-Boy Map. A couple radgophers popped up, chattering and squeaking to each other, but quickly burrowed underground again when the two walked by. A family of radstag's also kept their distance, only bleating pathetically to the trespassers as they walked by before sprinting away. But except for the radio on his Pip-Boy, the only noise was the wind rustling through short grasses, dead trees, abandoned towns and farms.

"It is quiet out here," Patrick said to himself. His eyes darted continuously over the landscape, hoping to catch anything that may show up before it would try to get him. The longer he didn't see anything, the more uncomfortable and nervous he became.

They arrived at an old barn, with huge chunks seemingly torn out of it, standing in the middle of the wasteland. Patrick and Colonel Granger each grabbed a bottle of water, filled with filtered water in an old Nuka Cola bottle, from Patrick's backpack, and began to drink.

"How much further?" Colonel Granger asked.

"About five miles," Patrick said. "But they may have patrols out here, so we should be careful."

Granger nodded, and turned around to throw the empty glass bottle into the ruins of the barn.

The bottle thudded against something. A low growl made Patrick freeze, before slowly turning around to see what that noise was. He took a closer look at the barn, and realized that there were massive scratch marks on the walls, made by claws that sliced through the barnwood like a hot knife through butter.

"Colonel," Patrick said, as something big began to stir, the growls getting louder. "I think you might have wanted to keep that bottle."

There was a massive roar, making even the Enclave officer shudder. He quickly grabbed the Red Alert, resting it on his shoulder and charging the weapon. Patrick didn't even bother with his .44 of 10mm, and quickly pulled out his assault rifle.

A massive hand, with four foot long claws clutching the side, burst out of the hole that Granger threw the water bottle into, followed by a massive head, with massive teeth, reptilian eyes, and fierce horns perched on top like a demonic crown. It whipped its head back and forth, sniffing the area, before turning it's head straight at Colonel Granger and Patrick. It roared again, and leaped out of it's hole, charging at Colonel Granger.

The Colonel had nearly dropped the Red Alert, but sprang back. The creature swung a massive clawed hand at Colonel Granger, who was able to jump backwards again, dodging the first swipe. He was not as lucky with the second swipe, which caught the side of his Power Armor and flinging him to the side, flying several feet in the air before landing in a heap. Colonel Granger tried to get up, but he groaned as his aching body, and the power armor he was wearing, was pushed harder than it could handle without any notice. The creature jumped right to Colonel Granger, and raised his hand to hit the dazed soldier again.

Patrick pulled the trigger of this assault rifle aimed at the side of his chest, but the .556 bullets seemed to bounce off the scaled armor, barely causing a scratch. The monster turned to Patrick, several feet away. Forgetting about Colonel Granger, the overgrown lizard raced at Patrick, his arms out and ready to strike.

Patrick fired again, this time aimed at the eyes, as he ran backwards. None of the bullets hit the creatures sensitive spots. The monster was faster and quickly caught up, and Patrick jumped to the side when the creature pounced, missing Patrick by a hair. Patrick began to run again, this time heading to the barn. He glanced behind to see the creature look under its claws, but then quickly turn to see Patrick run away, and gave chase.

Patrick got to the barn before the monster did, but the ten foot tall beast reached out to grab Patrick. It's claws dug into the side of the wall, trapping Patrick in it's grip. He dropped his assault rifle just out of reach.

However, it couldn't flex it's fingers to squeeze the human it had in its grasp, with its claws dug into the wood. It tried, and managed to get closer and closer each time.

"Duck Patrick!" Colonel Granger barked. Patrick instinctively slipped down along the wall, sitting hard on the ground. He then rolled away as best as he could, though the thrashing monster's legs were trying to dig into the ground to pull out from the side of the barn.

A loud electric pow, followed by the crack of thunder, came from where Granger was standing. White and blue bolts of electricity shot out, and impacted the side of the beast. It cried out in pain, anger and fury, it's entire body convulsing as thousands of volts of electricity coursed through its body. But the beam of electricity ended almost as soon as it began, and the monster was still standing, though panting, and trying to get its claws from the barn even harder now. The wood was groaning and creaking, and it was just a question as to how long before it got out.

"What the hell is this… thing?" Colonel Granger exclaimed, rummaging for another fusion cell to slap into the back of the Red Alert.

"I have no idea!" Patrick had grabbed his assault rifle, and with a quick motion grabbed the magazine clip of his gun, and quickly slammed a new magazine from a pouch on his belt and slammed it back in. He had a moment to aim, and he fired at the outstretched hand of the creature. But like before, the bullets merely bounced off the monster, and just made it even more and more angry.

With another roar, the creature ripped half of the wall of the barn off, chunks of wood flying everywhere. It didn't hurt Colonel Granger in his power armor, but a large board with sharp splinters hit Patrick over his right eye, knocking him down, crying out in pain. He tried to open his eye, but blood made it sting, the pain excruciating. He tried to get up, but the board hit him really hard, and he had a splitting headache, with his vision getting blurry.

Colonel Granger aimed another shot with the Red Alert, but missed, as the creature had moved too quickly, this time sprinting right at Patrick, fury and anger blaring in it's eyes.

A loud whirring sound, followed by the blast of bullets, came from out of nowhere. The creature screamed in agony, and fell to its side, red blood oozing out onto the dead ground. A blur rushed past Patrick but it seemed almost as big as the monster, but it sounded more human when it roared out in defiance and anger, but deeper than many voices Patrick had ever heard before. Patrick could see it was holding something over it's head, but then it vanished, followed by the crack of bone, the squish of flesh, and the final slump of the monster.

Everything went silent. Only heavy breathing could be heard for a few moments. Patrick tried to sit up, but his head hurt too much, so he fell backwards again.

He could hear Colonel Granger talking, something like "What are you?" but Patrick didn't hear the answer, passing out as a large green hand reached over Patrick's face.

Patrick woke with a start, gasping. His head still hurt, and sweat was running down his face, but at least his vision had pretty much returned. The room was dark, so it must have been night. He slowly laid down again, his head resting on a pillow, most likely stuffed with straw of some kind, much like his at home. For a moment, he began to think the past month never happened, it was just a dream… or he finally bit the bullet, and this was the afterlife he never really thought about until now.

"Auxiliary!" Colonel Granger exclaimed, a relieved sigh escaping his lips, ending that thought before it had time to manifest itself fully in his mind. Patrick looked over to see Colonel Granger, once again out of his power armor, standing over Patrick on the bed.

"Colonel?" Patrick asked. "What happened?"

"You had fight with Deathclaw," a deep, slow baritone voice answered. "It crazy you survive."

Patrick slowly turned his head around, to see an eight foot tall, wrinkled green skinned creature standing beside Colonel Granger. Giant didn't even begin to describe... it: huge muscles dominated his body, and it looked like he could pick up a Corvega and break it in two without breaking a sweat. His face was a bit distorted, his cheeks and chin and jaw all stretched further from his eyes than what should have been possible. Metal and leather were cobbled together to form something that may have approached armor or at least common decency, but it really looked like an afterthought, not seriously considered.

Patrick was almost instantly terrified of a creature like this, as he had never saw one before, and it seemed to be permanently scowling, or at the very least sneering in anger or superiority. But its eyes were quiet, gentle, and it was clearly trying to be non threatening. Maybe he was actually smiling for all Patrick knew.

"But Doc fix you up. Doc is good. Doc fix anyone," the creature said. "He did good job."

Patrick reached up, and touched his face where the board hit. He winced as he touched the gauze padding that was taped over his eye. It was only then that Patrick realized that he had an eye covered up.

"What… what are you?" Patrick asked, turning more to see the creature and Colonel Granger easier.

"I Benny," the creature said. "I safe you from Deathclaw."

"Well, thank you," Patrick said.

"What I think you actually were wondering about is the species," Colonel Granger said. "They prefer to call themselves, uh... Super Mutants." Granger didn't sound totally comfortable standing next to the green beast, but the super mutant didn't notice, or care.

Patrick nodded, but the name of course had no meaning to him right now. Though somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if a super mutant wasn't able to talk much better than a toddler, but had the brute force to take down an armor plated Deathclaw, then what hope did an Average Mutant have?

Patrick finally got sitting up on the bed, before taking a deep breath. Benny was breathing heavily, his entire chest lifting up and down in a fairly rapid pattern, though he was just standing there and not doing anything.

"Where are we?" Patrick asked.

"New California," Colonel Granger replied. "When you are feeling better, we were invited to talk to the leader of this community."

"Wait.. isn't New California like… a thousand of miles from here?" Patrick asked.

Benny laughed, a deep, earth shaking rumble. "Funny human."

"I dunno," Colonel Granger finally replied. "I'm sure we can get the answer later."

Patrick nodded, and lifted himself off the bed and stood up. Colonel Granger and Benny both reached forward to make sure that Patrick didn't fall over on to his face, but it wasn't needed. He gave a weary nod.

"Alright, let's go."

Benny led the way out of the backroom that Patrick had been lying in, walking past several super mutants, all doing something in a large hall that reminded Patrick of a hockey rink up in Assiniboia, and for all Patrick knew, it was one. A few were checking over their weapons, some sharpening fierce looking blades that Patrick had a feeling was taken from the bumpers of cars or the rotors of old aircraft. Some were chopping up meat, maybe from the deathclaw, maybe from Brahmin, or humans for all Patrick knew, and tossing the sliced and diced meat into one of several large pots or on a large grill, the sizzling and bubbling of the food sending aromas and smells that grazed Patrick's nose and made his stomach rumble. He wasn't sure what all was going into the food, but it smelt good all the same. Many of them were talking, shooting the breeze. Patrick noticed that some talked like Benny, many more a lot worse, and a few just like Patrick or Colonel Granger or any other human in the Wasteland. They all looked like they were from the same mould, more or less, so how could they be so different?

Colonel Granger took slower, smaller steps until soon he was a beside Patrick, who slowed down as well. "So, do you feel, uh, uncomfortable here?"

Patrick looked around, but none of the super mutants were looking at him and the Enclave officer. "A little bit. Something that big that could easily kill a monster that our bullets just bounce off, but are being so polite puts me on edge a bit, yeah."

"Okay, so not just me," Colonel Granger said, looking around, side stepping around a pile of wooden crates in a pile in the middle of path. "And how did they get like this? That's the other question."

"Another Enclave experiment that you won't tell me about?" Patrick asked.

"What? No!" Granger said, a bit louder than he should have. A couple super mutants looked over at Patrick and Colonel Granger, but quickly went back to what they were doing. "Look, okay, I'm sorry about before. I've told you a lot more than I should have."

Patrick didn't say anything, instead moving quicker to catch up with Benny, who was making his way through the crowd to the far end of the building. There sat a super mutant with a large minigun sat, polishing the barrels until they shone in the dim electric lights wired through the building. The super mutant had a brahmin hide vest, and a pair of goggles that were pushed up onto his forehead. Several piles of books and magazines were piled up around him, and several were open, and he was staring at one as he cleaned his gun. His mouth was moving as he read the book, but didn't say anything, so it looked like he was in a silent conversation with the book.

"Samuel! The humans is here to talk," Benny said.

"Thank you Benny," Samuel said, not taking his eye from the book for a moment. Benny turned around and stomped off.

Samuel finished reading his sentence and looked to Colonel Granger and Patrick. "So, you are the fellows that were nearly torn apart by a Deathclaw, huh?"

"I guess so. Never saw one of those monsters before," Patrick said.

Samuel raised an eyebrow. "No? Well, that must mean you're not from around here. So, you must be from Assiniboia, right?"

"I am, yes," Patrick said. "My name is Patrick, but most people call me the Auxiliary."

"Oh? I've heard of you on the DBS when it comes through," Samuel said, smiling as much as his face would allow him. "Though, I'm surprised that you find yourself this far south." He then looked over the Encalve officer. "And who is he?"

"Colonel Granger here is…"

"...from a vault near the old border," Granger interjected.

Samuel looked at both of them, a bit confused. "I know of only two Vaults in North Dakota, 53 and 63. So you are saying there is another one?" Patrick and Colonel Granger nodded.

Samuel shook his head and gave a small chuckle."I don't even know where to begin asking you questions."

"And we have questions of our own," Patrick replied.

"Fair enough. In due time, I'll answer. But I'm want to know; how did you get here past the Brotherhood of Steel lines to the north? And what Vault? And why are you here?"

"We were in an aircraft that was shot down by the BoS," Colonel Granger said.

"Aircraft? What is that? Like the big tube things that the Brotherhood had used?" Samuel asked, looking more and more confused.

"I'm not sure. It's a long story, but we are here now," Patrick said.

Samuel shook his head. "I've seen and heard of a lot of crazy things in my life. Robots that tried to destroy all of humanity, fighting with a deranged madman to bring peace to the world. Hell, I've met a person with a tree growing out of his head. But you two coming here and telling me this, it just reminds me that no matter the crazy shit that happens in this irradiated wasteland, there is always something that will trump it.

"But you didn't come here to hear an old, green mutant talk of the past. Why are you here?"

"We were sent this way to find a raider camp and destroy it," Patrick replied.

"Raiders, huh?" Samuel said, stroking his large chin. "Can't say that I've heard of any around here."

"Oh? Well we were told by the Overseer from Hardingville…" Patrick began.

"Hardingville?" Samuel interrupted.

"Uhh, yes. That's the place who sent us."

Samuel's face fell, and he sighed. "I think the leader there wanted you to deal with us."

"What? Why?" Patrick exclaimed. "Do you have problems with Hardingville?"

Samuel shook his head, his jowls wobbling a bit as he did so. "Personally, I don't. If anything, Hardingville is the problem. They hated us because of who they think we are: big, dumb brutes prone to violence and murder." He sighed. "And sometimes, they are right."

"What do you mean?"

"Years ago, when we first arrived and set up New California, they had also just started their town, and when we tried to help, there was an… incident, where one of our kind, though from an area far to the east when we are from the west, nearly killed one of them in a bloodthirsty rage and hunger." Samuel shook his head. "He's long gone now. We exiled him for his crimes, and he has most likely gone back to where he came from, but since then, they don't trust us. I can't blame them."

"But, Benny took down that deathclaw, and doesn't seem much smarter than a elementary student," Patrick said. "That raw strength should be a help to them."

"Yes. I was hoping that if we just tried to kill deathclaws or other violent creatures, we could both feed ourselves, and protect the town. I'm not denying that we are big and scary, and can fight when need to, and do a lot of damage and slaughter anything that opposes us." Samuel held out his hands. "But I've been preaching to everyone, super mutant, ghoul, human and everyone between, that we are peaceful, and wish to remain so. After all, we were humans at one point, even if many of the super mutants here have forgotten or don't care to remember."

"You were all humans?" Patrick asked.

"Yes. What you see before you is the result of a dangerous pre-war chemical called the FEV, or Forced Evolutionary Virus. If you dip a human into the FEV, there is a chance it will be mutated, either into abominations or deformed creatures that die soon after being dipped. Everyone here is the result of a successful dipping, though in very few cases would someone's intelligence be retained. I'm one of the lucky ones."

"So, did all of you just stumble on this FEV then?" Patrick asked. "And where?"

"It's in a secret, pre-War military base in California, a long, long ways from here. But it wasn't chance. All of us were made by a being called The Master, who sought to raise all of humanity to the level of the super mutants. He was defeated, however. Destroyed by a human we called the Great Terror. Other humans called him simply the Vault Dweller. After the Master's death, the Brotherhood of Steel, which might be the same people that are now fighting Assiniboia, tried to rid the Wasteland of our species. We were hunted down, exterminated. Just like if we were a pack of feral, rabid dogs to be put down. But that's not all we are. I've tried to prove so. But people like from Hardingville prove that it's very hard, if not impossible to convince everyone that we are not monsters."

"But you were created by that… Master or whatever his name is to try to take over the world," Colonel Granger said. "Doesn't that mean that you are dangerous, prone to violence and war?"

"That is what we were made for, war," Samuel admitted. "However, we have tried to remain at peace with our neighbors. I've been trying to keep the peace between Hardingville and New California for decades since we came here. Even when their patrols find ours, we never fire first and we will fire over their heads and just try to miss on purpose, just to not spark a war between our two settlements, or any settlement. But it's hard when few people want to trust us, to meet us at least half way."

Patrick listened carefully to all this. "But why do you want to do that? You could easily have destroyed Hardingville, and be left alone forever."

Samuel grunted in annoyance. "No. No! I'd never allow that to happen. I've seen war, first in California, then in the Midwest, and lately between Assiniboia and the Brotherhood of Steel. It's bloody, it's destructive, it does nothing but create hate and anger and terror, throwing the progress of those that are just trying to build a better life back years, if not decades. But no more!" Samuel pounded his chest as he roared out his declaration. "We super mutants, we've done our share of destruction and violence. Now we just want to live in peace, just to live our own lives and to help the Wasteland recover and rebuild from the Great War so long ago!" Samuel's voice had been rising the entire time, and he was standing up. A few other super mutants nearby had turned to see the commotion, and many of them cheered as Samuel finished his impromptu speech.

Patrick was impressed. Had Samuel not been a super mutant, and lived in Assiniboia, he would have been a mayor of a town or a MP in the Ledge. But instead, he was here, because he was turned into a monster.

Samuel sat back down, leaning over on his knees to face Patrick on something approaching eye level, man to man. "Look, I know that the people of Hardingville want us dead. They are scared and ignorant. I know I can't convince them myself that we are not a threat. But can you please talk with them, and try to convince them that we can work together? I know they face a lot of problems from animals and raiders, and I know some super mutants here who would gladly help protect them from the Wasteland. We just want to live in peace. Are you someone that can say the same?"

For the longest moment, they just stared at each other. Not exactly a battle of wills, but with both trying to peer deep into the other's psyche. The large, dull grey and green eyes of Samuel told a lot of what he was like: old, clever, curious, remorseful and with the faintest hint of desperation.

What would Patrick's eyes say in return? Patrick had no idea anymore. The face he used to see every morning in the mirror of his home in Melita was young, joyful, hopeful. Now? Were they depressed? Exhausted? Weary? Plain old tired?

Patrick looked away from Samuel, and took a deep breath. "Okay, I will see what I can do."

"That's all I can ask for," Samuel replied, sitting up.

Patrick nodded, and was about to turn around to walk out. But suddenly something came to his mind. "Also, I have one important question to ask you, besides a million other smaller ones."

"Sure, what is it?" Samuel said.

"I was told that there is a place in the ruins of Bismarck where they were designing a pre-War airplane, and we were asked to find it. Would you happen to know where that is?"

Samuel's eyebrows furrowed, his mouth twisting as he tried to concentrate. "We've combed through the ruins of Bismarck a lot to try to find anything valuable. Do you remember the name of the company?"

"Uhhh… Lockroad?" Patrick suggested

"Lockreed," Colonel Granger corrected.

"No, don't remember that."

"Poseidon Energy?" Patrick asked.

"Lots of gas stations, but no office that I remember seeing."

Patrick thought hard. He remembered General Stokes at Minot said three companies. "Uhhh… Bell Aeronautics?"

Samuel thought, then grinned. "Ahh yes! I remember them. It wasn't a big office building, next to the old airport. There wasn't a lot there, mostly computers and stuff. A few robots were on security there, so we didn't explore the place a whole lot."

Patrick thought, then shrugged. "That's okay. I think Colonel Granger and I could handle a few walking tin cans."

Samuel chuckled. "That's the spirit. Good luck in finding what you need though."

"Are you seriously going to do this?" Colonel Granger asked when they finally got out of New California and were heading back to Hardingville, which was pretty much just the old rink, with a few outbuildings for more people, crops and livestock (including sleipnir's much to Patrick's surprise, reminding Patrick of Demon way back in Melita; he hoped his stallion was being well treated), and a wood, stone and rusted steel wall to protect the place. Patrick was surprised that there were a few humans who were living with them, working alongside the bigger, greener mutants. Most likely safer with super mutants than in the wasteland for sure.

Colonel Granger was back in his power armor, towering a couple feet taller than Patrick now, and with the fierce bug-eyed helmet on. Patrick made do with his two feet and heartbeat.

"I'm going to try. Preventing bloodshed down here is just as important as stopping it up north," Patrick said.

"But they aren't even human!" Colonel Granger exclaimed.

"I know that. It's pretty hard to miss," Patrick scowled.

"And you want to trust those abominations of nature?"

Patrick stopped, and spun on his heel. "Oh, now you are going on about trust, huh?"

Colonel Granger's helmet was on, but the slight movement he made told Patrick he must have been wincing, as if a .22 bullet had hit his chest.

Patrick took a deep breath, held up his hands. "Sorry. Didn't mean to bring that up again."

"It's alright." By Granger's muffled mechanical voice, it was by no means alright, but he was more resigned than angry about it.

"Look. I know you don't like mutants. The ghouls at Minot, all the animals we've met over the past several weeks since you left the vault, it must be a huge shock. Hell, those super mutants make me uncomfortable too. But I'm trying to be open minded here, and, if even half of what Samuel said about how the super mutants were created and hunted down, then he deserves a break, wouldn't agree?"

"I don't know," Colonel Granger said. "I just… I just don't know anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"When I was growing up in the Vault, I was taught that we were the pinnacle of humanity. The Chosen People to survive a nuclear war, and to then walk out and resettle America and make it great again, and that we would be greeted with open arms by whatever mutated, degenerate society that may have existed as their unequivocal, undoubted superiors because we were pure and untainted by radiation." Colonel Granger sighed, and shook his heads. "But then when you showed up… You look like me. You talk like me. You don't have extra arms or a third eye or anything. You still had your ability to think, to reason, to understand logic. The radiation, the war should have destroyed that, leaving just us, the Enclave. The Vaults too, but that was never a consideration for us.

"Then you say that you aren't the only one, the anomaly. There are entire nations where there should have only been struggling survivor communities, if anyone at all. Assiniboia, the Brotherhood of Steel, Winnipeg for God's sake. It should have been an irradiated crater, not a thriving, bustling metropolis, the center of a country that has done surprisingly well for itself!" Colonel Granger gave a chuckle. "Sure, most of the city doesn't have electricity, or vehicles and running water, and criminals and bandits are still a problem, and half the city is in neglected ruins, but it's there. Human's survived the Great War. Maybe they have adapted, Darwinism at work, but humans like us, the Enclave, survived the war!"

"What does this have to do with mutants?" Patrick asked.

Colonel Granger paused, and thought it over. "Well, I guess I expected mutants to be dumb, slobbering beasts that we could kill in the thousands and never break a sweat. But they… they aren't."

Patrick raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Aren't?"

"The ghouls at Minot are just like you and me, only that they look like zombies, and can survive in radiation that should have killed people, and most of them are well over a hundred years old. Maybe they will live forever! And the super mutants… They are bigger, stronger, and can withstand enormous punishment and radiation. They can survive this world. If I didn't have this power armor, that Deathclaw would have killed both of us. It still nearly killed you. That super mutant killed the deathclaw with a god-damned car bumper!"

"Really? Wow…"

"So… is the Enclave, is humanity, really the superior species anymore?" Colonel Granger asked, his voice breaking despite the metal and ceramic plating all around him. "If we can't out-think, out-build, or even outlive, what point is there for a human race? Can I even say that we humans are the top of the food chain anymore?"

Patrick listened to the Colonel, the highest ranking military officer of the technologically advanced remnant of the pre-war United States emotionally break down as his entire world, everything he knew, was finally turned on its head.

"Colonel, I wish I had an answer for you," Patrick said. "All I can say is that life is precious, no matter what shape it takes. We lost so many from the War of 2077, and in the 141 years since, so why should we be advocating for the destruction of entire groups of people just because they look different, even though they want to be peaceful?" Patrick raised his hand. "I'm not saying that we should just ignore those that actually mean harm on others, like Raiders or the Brotherhood, but if some mutants want to try to make the Wasteland a better place, or at least want to be left alone, shouldn't we?"

Colonel Granger breathed heavily in his power armor, which made him seem rather menacing and even scarier, despite his current mind state.

"I… I don't know. I have to think about it." Colonel Granger began to move forward, his power armor clanking as metal clashed on metal. Patrick took a deep breath and followed, a smile on his face. Sure, he might not be able to trust Colonel Granger fully ever again. And the more Patrick thought about the Enclave, the more it terrified him. But at least they were human, with all the strengths and flaws. One of the biggest was a conscience. And Colonel Granger proved he had that.

PipBoy InfoTracker Note #9999

The Story of New California, narrated by Samuel

Is this thing on? Good. Okay, so, uhh… I'm going to record the story of me and our people, so that I remember. I'm already forgetting things from... a long time ago. Can't forget all of it. Okay. Where to start? I guess with the Unity. I lived in Vault… 17 I think? 16? Gah, I can't believe I would forget that. The Master's army took it over, and took all the inhabitants to… Mar… Mar… Mariposa Base. Then were dumped into the FEV. Many vault dwellers… didn't make it. But some of us did.

I retained most of my smarts. So many didn't. The guys in charge of the Unity told me to command a squad of... less smart super mutants. We were turned into a force of terror, ranging all over: The city of ghouls… Necropolis, I think... and... The Hub were destroyed by us. Hundreds, thousands gunned down, torn to pieces. Centaurs… part dogs, part humans, they killed as many as our miniguns and laser rifles.

Then the Cathedral… blew up. The Great Terror killed the Master. Why? I… I don't know. I've thought about this. Were we evil then? Was the Great Terror evil? We killed and slaughtered, but… Well, I'm sorry for that. I wish we didn't have to.

It's not important. Not anymore.

Us survivors started to group up. A hundred of us, many of those that their intelligence and those that followed them. I was elected leader, and, with the.. Brotherhood, and all the humans in Shady Sands and Junktown and elsewhere attacking us, we decided to go east.

The mountains was brutal. Many died in gruesome ways. Paths were narrow. Avelances. Snowstorms that raged for days and... froze some of us to death. We could withstand bullets. Radiation. Disease. But not cold.

Only 62 of us made it to other side of mountain. Continued east. We marched as far East as we could until we found the crater of Bismarck.

The radiation was still moderately high, and with the… Radiation Alley, I think the humans call it, to the north, it would be safe for us.

Some humans joined us in the trip. They sought protection, and offered to help grow food, tend brahmin. Some mutants wanted to kill them. I decided to welcome them. We have made it this far. So… I guess it worked.

But most humans don't trust us. I wouldn't trust me if I was human. Too scary. I… I can't look in a mirror somedays, to see the twisted face and sick green hide, the one that killed many…

New California is a promise, though. We will be at peace, like the New California that was being set up when we left. We will help others, no matter what.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

It took another two days to reach Hardingville again, though this time they purposefully avoided the barn that the Deathclaw was from. Otherwise, they nearly followed the same path back. They stopped near one of the few trees, black, bare, and dead, for the night, and set out the next morning, and reached Hardingville by mid afternoon.

When they finally reached the town, aching feet and hungry, they were more welcomed. Guards immediately rushed Patrick and Colonel Granger (only after he got out of his power armor, like before) to Mrs. Kildaer's office, but the suspicious glances and nervous shuffling by the other townsfolk was still evident.

"So, did you deal with our problem?" Mrs. Kildaer asked, crossing her fingers on her desk.

"Well, not exactly," Patrick said.

"Not exactly?" Mrs. Kildaer asked. "What do you mean?"

"We weren't aware that you were going to send us to take on super mutants, something that neither I nor Colonel Granger had experienced before," Patrick said.

"They are monsters," Mrs. Kildaer said, her voice gone icy with hatred. "Cannibals, murderers, thieves, and not much better than those ghouls or raiders that always stumble here. Those… super mutants are brutal monsters, destroying our buildings and crops whenever they try to come here. Cowards that flee when we shoot at them. They would be no problem to take care of if you would actually just do it."

"They didn't fire back and would retreat because they didn't want to fight you," Patrick replied. "They only want to live in peace and help the wasteland, and want to help Hardingville."

"Well they can bloody well help us by going away," Mrs. Kildaer snarled. Despite her appearance as a kindly old woman, right now she looked dangerous and ferocious, an elderly wolf that, though maybe not as strong or agile as before, would defend her territory with all her might and cunning. It scared Patrick.

"One of them saved our life, killing a god-damned Deathclaw!" Patrick exclaimed. "I would have been dead right now if one hadn't shown up. If anything, they are protecting you right now from the many things the wasteland could throw at you."

Mrs. Kildaer growled. "We can handle ourselves. Now, if you want to come back to Hardingville ever again, you will go back and kill them all." She stood up, walking over to the door and opening it. "Good day gentlemen."

Patrick and Colonel Granger rose from their seats. "Before we leave, we need more supplies," Patrick said.

"Fine. Leroy at the general store can help you," Mrs. Kildar said, still furious. "The guards will take you there."

"Thank you," Patrick said, and was lead out of the room, the council building, and onto the street.

"Oh, and Mr. Auxiliary," Mrs. Kildaer shouted behind them, making Patrick turnaround. "We don't have a water chip that we can part with. We are down to our final one as well. So don't even bother asking again."

Patrick growled, then stormed out.

Colonel Granger followed behind, and leaned over to Patrick, whispering so the guards won't hear anything. "At this point, I think I'd rather deal with the super mutants than these bastards."

"But if Hardingville won't work with the super mutants, what option do we have when we get back to New California?" Patrick asked. Colonel Granger was silent, so he must not have had a good answer.

When the walked into the General store, a small, balding man with brown hair around his ears, and glasses on his nose, perched on a stood behind the counter looked up. "You must be the new folks everyone has been talking about," the shopkeeper, who must have been Leroy that Mrs. Kildaer mentioned earlier, said, looking Patrick and Colonel Granger up and down, though seemed surprise that they looked like him and not like some mutant.

"We just need to get some supplies, then we will be on our way," Patrick said.

"Alright, what do you need?"

Boxes of 5.56mm and .44 Magnum bullets, several energy cells for Colonel Granger's Tesla gun, and a week's worth of canned food that was either pre-war or made by the people of Hardingville were sitting on the counter when Leroy began to count up the value of the assembled goods.

"Let's see… 100, 200… 300… 350… four hundred and twenty eight," Leroy said, adjusting the glasses on his nose.

"What? This up north would have been not much than 200!" Patrick exclaimed.

"My shop, my rules," Leroy said. "And if you don't like it, you can bugger off."

Patrick thought about it for a moment. He needed the food and the ammo, as he hadn't really gotten any supplies for a while, even from scavenging dead bodies or old houses. Finally he grumbled and reached for his pocket to grab his wallet, and began to count out the Assiniboian Pound notes inside.

"Uh, what are those?" Leroy asked.

"Money," Patrick replied, slightly confused. "That's what you want, right?"

Leroy shook his head. "Well… we don't use that paper stuff from Assiniboia. We use something with actual value."

"Okay, so what then?" Patrick asked.

"Bottle caps."

"What?" Colonel Granger exclaimed. "Bottle caps?"

"The bottle caps from Nuka-Cola bottles mostly, but also the old beer bottles and whatever other drinks used to come in a bottle."

"Why do you use them and not, like, actual money?" Patrick asked.

"It was about the only damn thing we agreed that we had a decent number of, impossible to replicate to make counterfeit versions, and would stick with a certain value." Leroy adjusted the glasses on his nose again. "Though most people here just barter."

Patrick had heard at one point that some settlements had used bottle caps as a currency, as well as those ring pulls from old aluminum cans. Before Assiniboia incorporated areas like Melita into the Dominion, they made do with simple bartering, though there were some old timers that said the hides of radgophers were used as the basis for all currency. Patrick was glad he didn't have to haul anything like that to the store every time he had to pick something up.

"Well, I don't have any bottle caps," Patrick said. "All I have is the Assiniboian pounds."

"No bottle caps, no business," Leroy said.

"Well, could we at least barter then?" Patrick asked.

Leroy looked at Patrick through his glasses, drumming his finger on the desk. "Well, what do you have to trade?"

Patrick thought for a moment, before he slung his backpack off his shoulders, and pulled out the partially disassembled service rifle from the back of the bag. Even though he hadn't used it at all since he left Melita after the raider attack, he knew how to put it back together, and quickly reassembled it.

"How about this?"

Leroy blinked through his glasses. "A gun, huh?"

"It's about the only thing I have that I can give up."

Leroy reached over and picked it up, but nearly dropped it. "Not really a gun person, frankly," the shopkeep said. As if to prove his lack of knowledge, he had it pointed at Colonel Granger and Patrick when he tried to pull the trigger. Fortunately, there were no bullets in it, and the safety was on. Nothing happened.

Patrick snatched the gun away. "Easy there! You could have killed us!"

Leroy didn't even flinch, his lack of concern for his customers chilling. "Well then. So, if you give me that gun and any ammunition that goes with it, I'll let you take all this. Deal?"

"It uses the 5.56 bullets, and I think I will need those," Patrick said.

"Ahh… well… fine, I'll take the gun. But if you ever come back, it's bottlecaps, you got me?"

"I don't think we'll be coming back for a long time," Patrick said. "It's not like Hardingville is exactly… open to outsiders."

Leroy shrugged. "I know I don't mind dealing with you outsiders. That's why they put me here in the shop. But yeah, everyone around here isn't too keep on dealing with people not from here."

"I bet that will come to bite you in the ass someday," Patrick said. "Everyone in the Wasteland needs to work together to survive."

"We work just fine by ourselves," Leroy said, as if it was gospel. "But good day to you folks."

Patrick and Colonel Granger walked out of the store, and down the street, back to where Granger's power armor stood.

"So, do you still want to help these people?" Colonel Granger asked when they finally got to the metal suit of armor.

"Do you?" Patrick asked.

Colonel Granger stopped right before he turned the wheel to open up the armor. "When I first heard of the town, made up of people from a Vault, I thought they would be perhaps the closest thing to an actual America as the Enclave always talked about. And… well, if they are descendents of pre-War Americans, they took the worst qualities of them, and magnified it many times over."

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"I've had some time to think about it. Two days, to be exact," Granger said, leaning against the power armor. "Americans, before the war, before either the Enclave or the Vaults, had some very deep rooted beliefs. We were proud, brave, free. We were a roll up your sleeves, can-do kind of people. We did the impossible, just to prove that it wasn't. We conquered an entire continent, built the first atom bomb, put the first man on the moon, achieved great feats in science, engineering and culture.

"But all that made us arrogant. American superiority, the belief that we were the historical exception, had blinded us. We had flaws as well, flaws we refused to deal with: racism, bigotry, hatred, paranoia, greed, aggression, the fanatic desire for individualism and fame while selfishly relying on others for help, ingratitude, the fear of anything that wasn't us. And because of that fear, that fear of Communism, drove the US to become a dictatorship that we swore to never become. Well, we really weren't a true dictatorship like the Commies, or the Nazis, but we weren't the democratic nation we claimed to be. And then we helped destroy the world in panic when we thought that China was going to take us over." Granger sighed. "Perhaps the one thing that the Great War did was prove that it wasn't the case, that American Exceptionalism was a myth. After all, I'm pretty sure China, Russia, all those European nations, are just as much in ruins and destroyed as we are. We needed that kick to the groin to remind us that we weren't special. And it seems like some people didn't get the message. America needs to get back to its roots: welcome anyone and everyone, no matter their skin color, their religion, or their language; freedom, and justice and liberty for all."

"That didn't really answer my question," Patrick said as Colonel Granger finally opened up his power armor, and climbed in, letting it close behind him.

"You weren't listening then. Those guys in Hardingville, they haven't learnt the lesson yet. Most of the Enclave still hasn't. In fact, I don't know if most of the world has learned it yet. If they won't help others, or even offer the slightest chance of opening up, then leave 'em. Let them rot until they learn the lesson. I just hope it's sooner than later." Colonel Granger took a deep breath. "At least, that is what I would do. Now."

Patrick nodded. "Well, I'm sure we can help the super mutants someway, I'm sure."

The hike back to New California took three days, more because they started late in the afternoon to get out of Hardingville as soon as possible, and didn't bother waiting till the next morning. Patrick had managed to shoot a few radgophers and took their tails on the trek, and an independent caravan came by and they had a short chat, but otherwise it was uneventful.

But when they got back to the town of big green men, they found it a scene of disorganized chaos.

"What's going on?" Patrick asked no one in particular as they got closer, seeing super mutants hauling boxes and crates from place to place, with a bunch of wagons hooked up to Brahmin and Sleipnir's gathered around the large hall. A couple of the mutants saw Colonel Granger in his power armor show up, and they hefted up their laser rifles to point it at the Enclave officer.

"Whoa!" Patrick said, raising his hand and slipping between the super mutants and power armored soldier. "What's going on?"

"Oh, it the good metal guy," one of the mutants said, slightly lowering his gun.

"You sure?" the other asked.

"Well, the no metal guy that talked to Sam-you-el is here as well, so it better not be."

"Oh, right," the second super mutant said, and lowered his gun. But before Patrick could ask what was going on, they walked away, into the crowd.

"What is going on?" Patrick asked for the third time in so many minutes, more exasperated.

"Maybe Samuel knows," Colonel Granger said.

They looked through the hall, which was mostly cleared out, and then around the area. No one they asked seemed to know where Samuel was, but when they were asked what was going on, the super mutants only said "going away."

Patrick and Colonel Granger finally found Samuel, loading his minigun into one of the carts.

"What's going on?" Patrick asked. "Why are you packing up?"

Samuel turned around slowly, and saw Patrick and Colonel Granger standing there.

"Ahh, you two," Samuel said with a sigh. "A couple of days ago, we were attacked by a group from the Brotherhood of Steel, in the metal power armor like your friend's there. Three of us were killed, and many others injured, but we killed all of them to a man. But even before we got back, we found a note on their leader with the orders to wipe us out to help the people of Hardingville. We realized that you must have failed in your mission."

"Yeah, the Overseer wouldn't listen to us. She pretty much kicked us out for not removing you and the other super mutants," Patrick said.

"I know you did your best. But we held a meeting, and decided that the best thing to bring peace to the area would be if we just left." Samuel leaned over and picked up a box. From the smell that assaulted Patrick's nose, it was a whole lot of meat, but with the stench of a preservative that Patrick knew all too well from home, which was used to keep meat at least edible for months, if not years, if not as tasty. Another University of Manitoba invention.

"Where are you going?" Colonel Granger asked.

"South. Just south," Samuel said. "Even if we went north to Radiation Alley, we would still be seen as a threat, and eventually someone will come to try to wipe us out. So just for the best that we leave North Dakota all together." Samuel set the box in the back of the wagon. "We'll go to… Kansas. Maybe Ar-kansas. I looked at the maps and old books. They are far away, and not many lived there way back when. Hopefully fewer do now, and those that do would accept us."

"I'm sorry I couldn't help," Patrick said. "I wish I could have done something."

"It's alright, Auxiliary." Samuel said, using the name the DBS had given Patrick. "You have shown us that not all humans want to kill us on sight. That more than anything gives me hope that someday we may find someone that won't want to exterminate us." Samuel grabbed something that was wrapped in cloth, an old jacket of some kind that long outlived its usefulness. "I would like to thank you for your efforts. Here."

Patrick took the wrapped package and opened it up. A shiny laser rifle stared back at him.

"Wow, this is pretty cool," Patrick said, carefully picking it up. It was fairly light, much to Patrick's surprise. He'd thought that the shiny metal made it a lot heavier.

"It's one from one of our fallen brothers, Striker" Samuel admitted. "It helped take down seven Brotherhood attackers before Striker was finally brought down by overwhelming numbers. There is also eighteen or so fission cells for ammunition right now, and I'm sure you can find more. I hope it will serve you well."

"Well, thank you," Patrick said, grabbing it and holding it in his hands. "It's very generous of you."

Samuel smiled, or at least as much as his mutated face would allow him. "I hope you will follow the path of peace, and only help those that need it, like we did. At the very least, let that be our legacy here in New California."

Patrick nodded. "I'll try."

Samuel offered his hand, and Patrick shook it, and then after Colonel Granger shook hands, he stiffened and gave a salute.

"Good luck down there," Colonel Granger said.

Samuel smiled again. Patrick and Colonel Granger turned around and began to walk away when Samuel stopped.

"Wait! Auxiliary!"

Patrick stopped and turned around. Samuel came back over.

"Do you need a ride?"

"What?"

"A sleipnir? We have many extras, which a couple friendly humans once helped us train several, and taught us how to train them, so we could trade. The trading didn't work so well, and the humans, I think their names was Howard and Charles, vanished one day. We can't bring them all with us. You can take one of the trained ones, if you wish."

Patrick blinked. "That's very generous of you. But yeah, I can use one."

The one that Patrick got was named Hardtack, which Samuel assured him was a fast sleipnir, "the fastest that we have ever seen." Patrick wasn't so sure. The sleipnir was a bit feisty, possibly on the verge of becoming wild again, but with Patrick's soft words and experience with sleipnir's, Hardtack was able to stand still long enough to let Patrick saddle and ride him. Though Hardtack was a bit rusty from lack of riding (he was one of the smaller sleipnir's, perhaps 20 or so hands high, so maybe the super mutants were nervous about hurting him), but Patrick was soon trotting around the nearly empty pen in a couple hours as the super mutants were packing up. Some watched Patrick bringing the eight legged beast under control, and even began to experiment with some moves, like sidestepping and jumping, though Hardtack wasn't used to either. Some of them applauded and cheered Patrick, other's watched in amusement.

The super mutants and the few humans that still wanted to follow them finished loading their caravan, and moved out as the sun began to set, their shadows stretching long over the prairie as Colonel Granger and Patrick, sitting on Hardtack after a day of riding and practicing, watched.

"Well, that's that," Colonel Granger said, turning around. "So what now?"

"Better go see if we can find those blueprints for Project Pegasus," Patrick thought. "Samuel said they would be near the airport, which sounds like was on the southern side of the city."

"Sounds good to me. Shouldn't be that far away."

The outskirts of the city that Samuel and the super mutants had set up the now abandoned New California was, if anything, a small suburb of the larger city. Bismarck, before the War of 2077, would have been maybe just about the size of Brandon, maybe a bit bigger. It was the state capital of North Dakota, and the former capital of the Northern Commonwealth, one of the thirteen "superstates" created a long time ago.

Now, only three massive, overlapping craters had scoured the majority of the city off the face of the earth. Most of the stories that Patrick heard of the nuclear weapons that made the modern wasteland was smaller, but more radioactive weapons were used instead. "Neutron" bombs, some called it: drop a lot of radiation, but not as destructive.

Bismarck, however, had direct hits that obliterated everything: buildings, trees, people… everything. A few buildings on the very far edge were spared, but even they were almost all collapsed and crumbling, with only grey, radioactive dirt, the occasional chunk of concrete and steel half buried in the ground to show that anything may have once been here. Patrick's Geiger counter didn't even click as they stood a short distance of the crater, but he wasn't feeling adventurous enough to go check Ground Zero. And it was silent. Patrick couldn't hear anything: no birds, no wind, now creaking doors or groaning buildings. Silence.

"Jesus. Winnipeg got off very lucky," Patrick said, staring at the crater. He tried to picture the capital of Assiniboia as nothing more than a few, radioactive craters. The images just wouldn't form in his mind.

"I just hope that China got it as bad as this," Colonel Granger said in a low voice.

They eventually left the crater side, and explored the southern side of Bismarck. Several entire streets, mostly large warehouses and offices, were spared from the destruction of the rest of the city. In fading paint or signs that looked like they were ready to fall at any moment, Patrick could see the names of pre-war companies and businesses, some of which could still be seen in Assiniboia to the north, on the warehouses, retail centers, and offices: Super Duper Mart, General Atomics, RobCo, Radiation King, Poseidon Energy…

"Ball Aerospace!" Patrick exclaimed, pointing to a short office building just down the street, jumping off of Hardtack's back. Only after he had landed on the ground did he realize how loud he had been.

"Awrroooooo!" a loud, ear piercing howl hit Patrick's ears, making him freeze in place. Colonel Granger also stopped and looked around.

"That doesn't sound good," Colonel Granger said.

The scampering of paws, the growls and pants of hungry, angry canines filled the street. Out of the shadows, a dozen wild, mangy mutts ranging in all sizes, with patches of fur missing and sickly green and red skin showing through, glaring eyes and vicious teeth all raced toward Patrick and Colonel Granger.

Patrick grabbed the assault rifle strapped to his backpack, flipped the safety off, and depressed the trigger.

Tata-tata-tata-tata! The automatic fire quickly burnt through all 24 rounds in the magazine. Patrick swung his weapon back and forth as he jogged backwards, but most of the 5.56mm bullets missed their targets. Several did hit the wild dogs, but none of them went down.

Colonel Granger stood still in the middle of the street and pulled out a laser pistol from his hip, firing it at the dogs. In his other hand, he grabbed a bent piece of steel, and swung it at whatever animal got to close. A couple went down with a whimper, one burst into flames and burnt into a pile of ashes, but they were too quick. A couple tried to headbutt or bite at Colonel Granger's armor, but the metal armor was too much for their teeth, so no damage was caused. The Encalve soldier scowed at one that kept headbutting and gnashing at Colonel Granger's leg, so he wound up, and kicked the dog. The force was enough to send the dog flying through the air, landing with a crunch as several bones were broken. The dog didn't get up.

Patrick tried to fumble for a new magazine and load it, but he stumbled on a pothole on the street, and the fully loaded magazine clip fell out of his hand. He threw down the assault rifle, and grabbed the .44 revolver off his hip, and stopped moving backwards. One, a rather large mutt compared to the others, was running straight at Patrick. He pulled the hammer down, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The .44 round went through one eye, shredded the brain, and went through the back of the skull. The dog went bonelessly limp in mid stride, and slid to a stop in front of Patrick.

But other dogs were still trying to get at Patrick, even as he started to back up again. He tried to aim his revolver at another dog, but they were faster and not charging headlong at Patrick. Each additional shot of his .44 missed the dogs he was aiming at. He pulled the trigger again, but the chamber clicked empty.

"Damnit!" Patrick cried out. "Where's a gun when I need it?" Four dogs were closing in on him now, all of them snarling and growling.

Colonel Granger turned around to see Patrick several meters behind him. He aimed his laser pistol, and fired, even as a smaller dog kept jumping, snarling, and biting at his armor. He managed to hit one of the dogs, but missed the other three.

"What about the laser gun you just got?" Colonel Granger shouted.

Patrick nearly stopped mid stride as he remembered that gun. He had shoved it into this backpack, with the butt still stick out. He reached behind him and grabbed it, aiming it at the closest dog. He pulled the trigger.

Patrick was surprised at the lack of recoil compared to a normal ballistic gun. It also felt lighter than a normal gun, which meant that it was easier to aim. The problem was that because of the inner mechanics, the crystals that focused and strengthened the laser, it wasn't very accurate at really long distances, off by several degrees the further away you got. But this wasn't long distance… 40 feet, at most. A superheated red laser fired from the weapon and impacted the dog in the chest. It yelped and fell over, trashing on the ground as it struggled to breath.

Patrick couldn't focus on the dog he just shot, as there were now five others trying to get at him to tear his throat out. He aimed the laser rifle again, and shot. Another dog went down. A third was killed a moment later, gasping in agony as its muzzle was incinerated. Colonel Granger's laser pistol also took down another dog. The last one got right up to Patrick, and only a sudden jerk of his leg prevented the vicious mutt from taking a bite of his leg. Patrick turned the laser rifle in his hand and smashed the stock right into the dog's head. It stunned the dog for a moment, making it whimper and whine, and gave Patrick the chance to to rotate the gun, and fired a shot right into its head. It collapsed at once.

Patrick panted heavily, the adrenaline racing through his body. "Well, that's done," Patrick said.

Colonel Granger holstered his laser pistol to his power armor. "Yeah. Next time, let's not disturb a pack of wild dogs, okay?"

Patrick walked over and grabbed Hard Tack's reins. Surprisingly, the sleipnir hadn't run away. In fact, it was snorting, pawing at the ground, like if it was standing its ground from the dogs. Patrick knew that sleipnir's had a very deep and ingrained fight or flight instinct, though often leaning more toward the fighting side of the scale. Demon was very much a fighter, and it looked like Hardtack was the same.

"Alright, let's go find those blueprints," Patrick said, attaching the laser rifle to Hardtack's saddle, grabbing his .44 Magnum and assault rifle, reloaded both, and proceeded into the Ball Aeronautics building.

As soon as Patrick opened the door, a Mister Handy robot floated up to them.

"Welcome to Ball Aeronautics, Bismarck Office! Please provide your employee number and job title." The British accented robot said as soon as Patrick and Colonel Granger stepped into the office.

Patrick blinked, his hand on the laser rifle that was already his new best friend, and looked around. The building was more or less in ruins, but he had no idea how many laser turrets, other robots, or traps and mines could be laying around. Well, it's worth a shot… "Uhh… Employee number 5873, and… Vice-President?"

The Mister Handy hovered in the air for a moment, little clicks and whirs as the security system went through the list of employees. Patrick bit his lip, shuffled in his steps, his finger tightening on his laser rifle…

"Welcome Vice President Kevin Combs. You were last logged in 140 years, six months, and 26 days ago. Internal security systems have been deactivated for your safety. Have a nice and productive work day!"

Patrick and Colonel Granger stared as the Mister Handy moved to the side.

"H-how did you do that?" Colonel Granger asked

"I dunno… luck?" Patrick replied, just as shocked as the Colonel.

The Mister Handy then turned to Colonel Granger. "Welcome to Ball Aeronautics, Bismarck Office! Please provide your employee number and job title."

"I'm a Colonel with the US Army to do an inspection on Project Pegasus," he replied.

The robot took a moment to think. "Project Pegasus is a project of the US Air Force. Does not compute."

"I allow him here!" Patrick shouted, making the Mister Handy turn. "I give authorization to override the secrecy parameters."

The robot had to think a bit more. "Very well Mr. Vice President. Have a nice day."

The Mister Handy finally went away, and Patrick and Colonel Granger breathed a sigh of relief.

"Okay, let's get this over with." Had Colonel Granger not been wearing his helmet, Patrick would have seen sweat dripping down his face in nervousness.

They split up and searched the building. Patrick started on the first floor, but all the books, papers and computers were falling apart, illegible, and not working, respectively. Colonel Granger clanked his way up to the second floor to look, and a few minutes later, after Patrick was unable to find anything on the first floor, he joined the Colonel.

The second floor was, frankly, a mess. The roof was caving in, so a third of the room was impossible to get into. Patrick could also see several Protectrons and Mister Handy bots in a low power state slumped over or resting in their pods. At least they weren't shooting at Patrick, so there was that. But there were a lot of computers, some that were still functional, and a massive mainframe with a few reel-to-tape memory banks visible. A nearby generator was also put-puttering nearby, giving some power to the computer system. Colonel Granger was working on getting the mainframe working, his helmet off on a table nearby so he could see better, and his head almost entirely inside the guts of the electronic device.

"Find anything? Patrick asked.

"I dunno. The mainframe has a lot of dust in it, but if I can just get…" he muttered, pulling at something. There was a loud beep, followed a moment later by the reels on the outside beginning to spin, and a loud clanking, crashing sound could be heard. Fans started up, with 140 years of dust being expelled at once, making both Colonel Granger and Patrick sneeze.

"Bless you," they both replied at once, and they both laughed.

Several computer terminals turned on, and Patrick and Colonel Granger went to seperate ones.

"Okay, so we are looking for anything with Project Pegasus, correct?" Patrick asked.

"Yeah. I don't know if there were any other code names though, so we may have to check almost everything."

Patrick and Colonel granger began looking through the terminals for any information. A lot of the files were corrupted, some that claimed to be there weren't, and in general it seemed that thanks to the breakdown in the mainframe, nothing was where it should have been.

"Damnit," Patrick muttered to himself when he got through all the files. "Nothing here."

"I did see something where the design specs and the blueprints that were made on computer were supposed to be printed off and put into a safe after every major revision. The last time that was done was… September 13, 2077. We should have a file somewhere."

"Safe? I think I saw one downstairs," Patrick said. "I didn't open it though, as I didn't have the code."

"Well, we'll have to crack the safe then," Colonel Granger said.

Patrick and Colonel Granger tramped on back downstairs to the office where Patrick saw the safe. Colonel Granger looked at it for a moment twisting the dial on the front a bit to try to hear clicks inside the safe's mechanics. But the rusty metal wheel stopped turning after a few clicks.

"Well, fuck," Patrick said, staring at the safe. "And who would have thought that the safe would be impossible to open?"

Colonel Granger didn't even blink, instead reaching down and grabbing the handle, and yanking the door handle. The handle, and the entire door came off with a metallic snap, revealing the contents inside.

Patrick's eyes went wide. "Jesus, where did that come from?"

"I'm wearing power armor. Duh," Colonel Granger said. He then knelt down to look inside the safe.

Patrick knelt down as well and reached inside, and pulled out a large folder, and then opened it. Technical drawings and blueprints stared back at him.

"Well, this looks like an airplane. I can't tell if it's nuclear powered or not though."

Colonel Granger grinned. "Well, it does say Project Pegasus right there," pointing at the top corner.

"Huh. Well then." Patrick closed up the folder, slung his backpack off and deposited the papers inside.

"So, that's done. Now we just gotta get that back to Winnipeg and Secretary Creighton." Patrick said. Colonel Granger nodded.

They walked out the front door, past the polite and cheery Mister Handy, and stood outside. Patrick walked over and got Hardtack, leading him back to Colonel Granger as he fit the helmet back on his head.

"So, where now?" Colonel Granger asked.

Patrick brought up his Pip-Boy and looked at the map. "I don't think we better go back to Vault 53, or toward where the Vertibird crashed. I bet the Brotherhood are still looking for us." Colonel Granger nodded. "We are still most likely pretty far behind Brotherhood lines, and the closest town in Assiniboia looks like it's either Devil's Lake or Bomber City. The only problem is that Radiation Alley is between us and them."

"So we go around it I guess?" Colonel Granger suggested. "I bet if we stay a bit closer to Radiation Alley, we might not get patrols looking for us. I could easily walk through it because of my power armor, but I'm sure you won't fare so well."

"No, and I don't think I have enough Rad-X to get me through it. So around Radiation Alley it is."

They didn't set out, instead staying at the hall that the super mutants had just abandoned, sleeping on old mattresses that weren't taken along for the trip south, eating some leftover stew that the super mutants had made.

They woke up the next morning, Patrick climbing up onto Hardtack's back, and began their trek north, away from New California, and skirting the ruins of Bismarck, and continued to head northeast.

It's often hard to accurately figure out where Radiation Alley was, which made trying to walk near it a problem. The winds could quickly shift, rain and snow that formed over Radiation Alley could travel hundreds of miles before storming, and in general the radiation was impossible to predict.

Colonel Granger had a Geiger counter in his power armor, and Patrick had one on his Pip-Boy, which was about the only useful thing the wrist mounted computer could do, with the radio signals jammed, and no new random information coming on for him to read.

Not only that, but the ever present fear that over the next hill, in the next slough, in the next ruined farmhouse, Brotherhood soldiers could be waiting. They would be patrolling, trying to maintain the long "front line" they claimed they held in North Dakota. Patrick heard from merchants and traders that, if you knew the patterns, you could slip by easily enough, especially when you were close to Radiation Alley. But if you were caught, or if the radiation shifted, or a storm came up… there were often traders that frequented Melita and the towns of Assiniboia that suddenly vanished, and were never heard from again.

Patrick and Colonel Granger stumbled on an outpost of the Brotherhood in the middle of nowhere late one afternoon. The only warning that they had was the crackle of gunfire, and the shouting of several people that sounded a lot like drill sergeants.

"Where are we now?" Patrick asked when they found a place to make sure they wouldn't be found, a small bluff that was almost too close to the barbed wire fence that was around the stretch of bare, wasteland prairie. Hardtack was tied to a tree further into the bluff of old trees, hopefully far enough that she wouldn't be noticed, and could eat or relax to her heart's content.

"We should be okay. It looks like a training post," Colonel Granger said when Patrick asked him. "They would only have something like this behind the lines, far from where possible fighting might be. If we are found, there won't be many people that can go after us. I hope."

"But out here? Where are we even?"

"You have the Pip-Boy with the map," Colonel Granger replied.

"Oh, yeah," Patrick said, looking down at the device on his arm. He brought up the map, and groaned. "Still doesn't help. There is no towns nearby that I'm aware of."

Colonel Granger sighed. "Well, we should still wait until after sundown."

Patrick acquiesced, and so they set up a small camp in the bluff, and ate some of the food that they picked up from New California.

Otherwise, they sat and studied the base patiently, from a distance. From their vantage point, they couldn't make out the features of individual soldiers in the camp. But there was a shooting range where they practiced fired guns, ranging from pistols to hunting rifles to laser guns at targets. Another group was exercising, some wrestling, some taking a break and eating at a cluster of tables. Through all of it, better equipped and armored soldiers prowled, barking orders and obscenities at the recruits.

"Man, there has to be five hundred people there," Patrick whispered to Colonel Granger. Sure, he was hidden and well out of earshot of any BoS soldier, but he dared not take any risk of being found.

"Yeah," Colonel Granger also whispered. "But they all look pretty young. I bet not a single one down there is older than 15."

"Why are they training them so young?" Patrick asked.

"Indoctrination," Colonel Granger said. " The younger you start drilling them to march, shoot, tell them what's right and wrong, and take orders, the less likely they will do anything but what you want. The Enclave isn't really much different. Just not all of us are soldiers."

Patrick bit his lips, but didn't say anything else, and looked around He noticed about 20 kids were being lead in a run around the exterior of the perimeter of the base. He could even hear them chant their marching song.

Then he saw him.

"Zach?" Patrick asked, his eyes going wide. His hair may have been cut, his clothes different, but it was clearly him.

"What?"

"My brother… he's there."

"Are you sure? There is a lot…"

"That's got to be him." Patrick said, digging for his wallet, and pulling it out. He rummaged through the bills and paper in it until he pulled out a picture of Zach. "Look. Same height, same hair, that scar on his cheek."

Colonel Granger looked to the kid that Patrick pointed out and back down to the picture. "Well, maybe you are right."

"I got to rescue him."

"What?" Colonel Granger exclaimed, his voice going up. He looked around, then whispered again. "Are you insane? They will kill you! And him!"

Patrick clenched his fists. "But… all this time… trying to find him… and he's… and I... can't…" he burst into tears, slumping down against the tree. "So close… but so far…"

Colonel Granger bit his lip, and reached out to Patrick, but stopped before he touched his shoulder, unsure what to say or do to comfort him. The Colonel sighed and looked away, keeping his eyes on the training camp.

Colonel Granger had to make sure that Patrick didn't run away that night to do something rash or foolish, and still followed him closely with an eye when they left later so that he didn't do something rash. But Patrick was quiet and sullen for the whole day, and didn't say anything when they finally started heading north.

It took two solid days of careful traveling, with a lot of diversions to avoid the rads that kept pushing them further and further east, before Patrick and Colonel Granger finally found a Brotherhood of Steel patrol. Rather Patrick was found by the three BoS soldiers first as he got Hardtack to the top of a hill, and Colonel Granger was clanking away a bit further behind.

"Halt!" one of them shouted, lifting his laser rifle to point at Patrick. "Who goes there?"

The soldier were all fairly similar: none was wearing power armor, and instead was wearing crudely fashioned metal armor. However they all had laser weapons, and all looked like they knew how to use them. They had a hardened, veteran feel about them, which made Patrick a bit nervous. These guys weren't like the rookies he found back after the Vertibird crashed.

"I'm just a farmer going to town to get some supplies," Patrick lied.

"What town?" another BoS soldier, a shorter female, asked.

Patrick tried to remember his map, and thought he had an answer. "Devils Lake," he said.

The first Brotherhood guy snarled. "What? That's Assiniboian territory! You are under arrest for treason and trying to defect." All three of them raised their rifles at Patrick.

"Alright, you got me. But you can't shoot me, I'm from Assiniboia and we aren't at war," Patrick said.

"You're a spy and a sabotager person then!"

Before Patrick could move, a bright blue streak of electricity went through the air, just above the heads of the Brotherhood soldiers. Hardtack reared up in shock, his four front hooves flailing and pawing at the air. Patrick struggled to hold on to the reins to prevent Hardtack from throwing him off or running away. The BoS soldiers ducked from both the blast of Colonel Granger's Tesla gun. Hardtack's hooves hit the ground, all four of them impacting the earth so hard that one of the BoS soldiers trying to stand up was knocked off his feet. Patrick grabbed his .44 Magnum from his holster, and managed to get it out and pointed at one of the soldiers and fired a shot. The bullet bounced off the metal armor, much to Patrick's disappointment.

But this time the loud gunshot made Hardtack buck, and began to sprint down off the hill. Patrick dropped his revolver, instead using both hands to grab hold of the reins to try to slow down and stop Hardtack.

"Easy there!" Patrick shouted, trying to yank back to slow down the equine, but Hardtack was in no mood to listen.

ZAP! Lines of red energy shot out all around Patrick and Hardtack as they raced away, which just made the sleipnir run even faster to the north.

Patrick grimaced, took a deep breath, then yanked hard on the left rein, sharply turning the sleipnir around and straight back at the hill.

The sight of a galloping sleipnir, taller than a human and nearly the size and weight of a pre-War car, with eight thundering hooves that have been known to trample people to death, charging straight at you was something that few people in the Wasteland ever experienced, or would want to experience. That was why Assiniboia had cavalry regiments, even though they hadn't been used since the early 20th century. Patrick had only experienced a charging sleipnir a couple times in his life, when something went wrong when he was trying to break a young sleipnir. The Brotherhood soldiers, to Patrick's credit, tried to hold their ground and fire at first. But Hardtack wasn't scared now, he was furious. He snorted, lowered his head, and kept coming.

All three Brotherhood soldiers scattered. The one that tried to run straight ahead in his heavy metal armor was headbutted by Hardtack, sending the soldier flying and tumbling off the hill. He didn't move, but Patrick wasn't sure if that was because of being hit by a furious Sleipnir or crashing on the ground after flying off a small hill, and if he was dead or unconscious.

The loud firing of the Tesla Gun sounded again just as Patrick turned Hardtack around once more. Patrick was just in time to see the Brotherhood soldier that the blue bolt of electricity hit scream out as she was caught on fire. Not just any fire, but something so hot she nearly instantly combusted. Before her body hit the ground, it was almost a pile of ash: only the metal armor and the laser weapon she held wasn't charred ruins, and even then they were blackened by flames.

Colonel Granger popped out of the spot where he fired the Red Alert, and looked around until he saw Patrick, and gave a wave. Patrick finally managed to bring Hardtack back under control, gently easing the sleipnir down from a gallop to a trot to a walk, before finally stopping back at the top of the hill. Colonel Granger knew better than stand right in front of the snorted, angry Hardtack. Even in his power armor, he sure didn't want to have to face those furious hooves. But the sleipnir, nostrils flaring, body shaking, sweat dripping all over, wasn't in any mood or shape to begin running again. If need be, perhaps, but Patrick didn't want to push Hardtack.

"Well, that was fun," Patrick said, giving a small, forced smile.

"Good thing they didn't just shoot you on the spot," Colonel Granger remarked.

"Yeah. If they did, I would be like that one guy you got," Patrick said, looking over at the pile of ash that was a Brotherhood soldier a few minutes ago. Smoke still came up from the uncannily human body shaped pile of ash.

"Did you see what happened to the third soldier?" Colonel Granger asked.

"No, did you?" Patrick asked. The colonel shook his head.

"Damn, he must have got away," Patrick said, with a sigh. "Well, we can't stay here. We've got to get to the railroad ASAP."

Colonel Granger nodded. "Then let's get going."

PipBoy InfoTracker Note #395

The Northern Commonwealth Welcomes You!

Are you tired of city living? Of riots and food shortages and the risk of nuclear power plants melting down and excessively high taxes? Well why not come to the Northern Commonwealth, and find a new home far from all your worries!

Composed of North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana and Wyoming, the Northern Commonwealth is leading the entire United States in many important demographics: food security, crime, education, pre-capita income, and the fastest growing economy in the past six years. Here is the last major sources of oil in North America, locked up in North and South Dakota, just waiting to be unearthed and sold at great profits. Coal mines in Montana are also booming in the drive to power the rest of America, and prices for wheat, corn, barley, beef, pork and many other foodstuffs is so high that even a first year farmer can more than pay for their new farm. And what good-blooded American wouldn't want to travel to see the famous Mount Rushmore, and see the last living bison roaming the plains?

All this wealth is just making the Northern Commonwealth the best place to move and do business with, and it's the safest place in the whole US: The New Plague has not ravaged our fair Commonwealth due to stringent quarantine rules, no Chinese Communists would ever show up here this far from any coast, and the US Armed Forces have dozens of bases and missile defense stations to ensure our safety and make sure those Canadians don't disturb us. And our cities, while maybe not as big as New York or Los Angeles, have just as many services, for a fraction of the cost of living: Our tax rate is the lowest in the country, so you get to keep more of your hard earned greenbacks!

So what are you waiting for? Come visit the Northern Commonwealth today! You'll be glad you did!

**Paid for by the Northern Commonwealth Economic Development Board. All the claims made have been approved by the Northern Commonwealth Statistics Office. Those wishing to move to the Northern Commonwealth may be subjected to physical, mental and health tests before approval. Anyone who has had a family member infected with the New Plague will be turned away at the border and/or shot on sight. Taxes may be subject to change without notice.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

Patrick and Colonel Granger continued north for another day, by which time they were well into the no-man's land that was the border between where the Brotherhood claimed to control, and the land that officially owned, if not fully occupied, by Assiniboia. Due to the frequent radiation storms, the lack of transport, and the possibility of war between Assiniboia and the BoS, very few people lived in the area, and those that did lived in small, fortified outposts that was reluctant, even hostile, to allow outsiders in.

Patrick and Colonel Granger couldn't stop, as sleeping in a place like this would either result in your death or mutation into a ghoul if a sudden radiation storm blew in. They continued north until to try to find a railroad, as the UAR had a line that connected Devil's Lake and Bomber City, the main towns of the District of Devil's Lake, which would be their way to get back to Assiniboia and something resembling a habitable place to live.

"About time too," Colonel Granger said when Patrick mentioned that. "I haven't showered in weeks at this point." Patrick couldn't remember the last time he got to fully clean up.

Patrick turned on the radio to DBS, where he managed to catch the last half of the £5000 Quiz Show. A lady - Margaret, Patrick believed the host was calling her - had already won three quarters of the money, and was going for the final question. The studio audience, one of the few DBS shows to have one, was finishing clapping, most likely after Margaret got the last answer right.

"For the whole £5000, and to have your name engraved on the Winners board, can you give me the answer to this question?" The host asked in his stereotypically loud voice. "What was the name of the Prime Minister of Assiniboia who disappeared while hiking north of Winnipeg? You have twenty seconds, starting now!"

A loud, almost cartoonish tick-tock of a clock filled the airwaves. It made Patrick jerk up and look around, hoping that nothing nearby would have heard the sudden loud, jarring noise. Fortunately, nothing was nearby.

"Um, is it… Prime Minister Tilmashenko?" the contestant asked, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation.

"Prime Minister Tilmashenko. What a name! Is that your final answer?" the host asked. "Remember, if you get it wrong, you will go home with nothing but whatever is in the Consolation Prize box."

The audience started shouting and screaming, trying to make themselves be heard over each other, drowning out all noise. "Uhhh… yes!" Margaret shouted over the crowd. Half the audience, the half that believed she had the right answer, cheered and clapped, but the other half was silent, some groans and boos from those that thought she was wrong slipping through the cheers."

"Well, is she right?" he asked.

A loud, angry buzzer sounded. Patrick once again looked up and hoped there wasn't anyone nearby that would want to shoot him. He most likely wasn't going to listen to this again out in the wasteland.

"No, I'm sorry Margaret," the host said, in his loud, boisterous voice that was trying, and not fully succeeding, to sound sympathetic as the audience in the background groaned and sighed in disappointment. "The answer was actually Prime Minister Jeffrey Hardy, Prime Minister from 2176 until 2181 when he vanished while on a holiday hike near Lake Winnipeg. He has never been found, despite a massive search, but the rumors of where he is has become a legend throughout Assiniboia."

"Darn it!" Margaret said. Though she was clearly ready to say something less polite that couldn't be put on the radio. Or at least, not on DBS in the middle of the day.

"I'm sorry Margaret. But, let's see what you get as a consolation prize!"

A multi-key jingle sound. "You won a Brahmin! A first rate dairy Brahmin, quiet and ready to go to pasture, or to your freezer, whichever strikes your fancy!" the host said.

"But I live in Winnipeg."

"This fine specimen comes from Double N Ranching in Por La Pra. Double N Ranching: Only the best meat!"

"I don't have a pasture though," Margaret said

"Thank you Margaret for coming on!"

"And I'm a vegetarian! Can I just get some money?"

"That's it for the £5000 Quiz Show! Tune in next time when another contestant tries to go for the big bucks!"

"This is stupid!" Margaret shouted. "I want-"

She was cut off as the DBS jingle began to play. Patrick shut off the radio as the announcer finished station identification, and the announcement that the next program was Wellington, the soap opera based on the rich and powerful area of Winnipeg. Patrick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Grandma Morrison loved that show, would stop everything for an hour to listen to it. Patrick, and Grandpa for that matter, rarely paid attention to the show, except when the occasional gunshot or scream would make Patrick startle from whatever he was doing. But the sound of the theme song took him back, right back to when he was at home, before this whole mess happened.

He even found himself humming the theme song, the obnoxiously catchy ear worm that had been on the air for decades now. Possibly over a hundred years by now.

"Hey, what's that over there?" Colonel Morrison asked, pointing to the east.

Patrick looked over, squinting to make out whatever he could. "I dunno. Looks like a lot of old cars along the road, all heading north. Don't know where that would be though."

"Want to go check it out?" Colonel Granger asked.

Patrick shrugged his shoulder. "I was just about to ask you that. Might as well."

Patrick and Colonel Morrison turned to the northeast and began to walk toward the line of cars, and eventually reached an old road. While the broken pavement and ruined power lines hanging off to the side wasn't new, the fact that the cars on it, most of them the nuclear or fusion powered ones that were starting to be made before the bombs fell, but the occasional gas guzzler also sat amongst the rusting remains. The only difference was that the ones that used gasoline had a hinged flap on the back end where the gas was put in. For the Highwaymen and Corvega's that used the more modern tech, refueling it usually involved plugging in a new battery or two that would last for hundreds of miles.

"Lots of cars," Patrick said, peering into them. There weren't many that still had windows, and in a few Patrick could see skeletons or bones, with ragged and torn pieces of clothes scattered among them. Toys, suitcases, bottles of Nuka Cola or alcohol, boxed food; anything and everything someone would have packed into a car if they were going away for a while. In some, twigs and grass was arranged into nests for birds or small animals, the long line of metal hulks a perfect shelter for many animals.

"Yeah, and it wasn't cheap to get those cars back then," Colonel Granger said as he looked at the cars. "Hundreds of thousands of dollars for just some of the low end stuff, upwards to a million for the more advanced cars."

"Where were they going?" Patrick asked.

"I guess we'll find out."

They continued to follow the road. Patrick stopped Hardtack, climbed down, and picked up one of the bottles of Nuka Cola in the back of one of the cars, and popped the cap off. But instead of throwing it away like he used to, remembering Hardingville, be slipped the cap into his backpack. Just in case. He took a drink from the flat, irradiated, and sugary drink. It quenched his thirst, despite the radiation, the lack of flavors, or anything else. He enjoyed it just the same.

Patrick remounted and carried on, sidestepping around all the rusty hulks of cars. At last, near a small outcropping, they found a parking lot where a lot of different vehicles were parked. A barbed wire and chain link fence surrounded the parking lot, with a broken down checkpoint being the only entrance, but there weren't many signs, metal or wood, on the outside that could be read to determine where they were. Patrick and Colonel Granger entered the broken pavement surface, and looked around. On the far side, a small concrete structure that seemed to have stood the test of the time remarkably well, stuck out of the ground like a grey pimple on the brown landscape. Some models of vehicles like Patrick and the Colonel had seen walking to the base where parked on one side of the lot, with a lot of empty room still. On the other side on the lot, an entire fleet of derelict trucks was parked, with the remains of canvas covers, all with a white star painted on the side.

"US Army vehicles," Colonel Granger pointed out. "And a lot of them."

"And there are quite a few of the cars here, though not all the spaces are full. Why would that be? And why are they all out here in the middle of nowhere?"

Colonel Granger looked around. "I don't know… but I bet that bunker there would have the answer."

Patrick dismounted from Hardtack and tied her up to one of the old trucks. Colonel Granger was already walking up to one of the small metal doors that lead into the bunker. He managed to pull it open even though it was mostly rusted shut, and both entered the dark room on the other side.

Patrick flipped on the flashlight on his Pip-Boy, while Colonel Granger turned on his helmet mounted light to allow both of them to see. It was a bit musty, and possibly moldy, and definitely dusty, meaning that not many people must have been here, much less lived here, for decades.

"It looks just like a command post," Colonel Granger said, his gaze focused on an old, ratty, American flag limply hanging on a flagpole behind a cheap metal desk. Colonel Granger investigated the desk, and pulled out a couple folders. "To Lieutenant-Colonel Arthur Hoess, Commander, Camp Clancy," he read from the document still mostly intact. "By order of the Department of Defense, you are to transfer five hundred (500) of the pre-selected number of incarcerated subjects that you have submitted to the Department previously to Vault-Tec facility 'Vault 63' no later than October 1, 2077. You have been authorized the use of any equipment or personal you deem necessary to transfer them. You must not, under any circumstances, let it be known to the subjects that they are being transferred to Vault 63 until they have arrived at the Vault. Vault-Tec personal will be given charge over the subjects when they arrive.

"Signed, Major General Theodore Ericks, United States Army Provost Marshal General."

"What's a Provost Marshal General?" Patrick asked.

"As far as I know, he's the guy that would, theoretically, be in charge of any prisons or POW camps," Colonel Granger replied. "I had heard stories of Camp Clancy. Apparently it was a place where Chinese Prisoners of War were sent when captured."

"So, this is Camp Clancy?"

Colonel Granger shook his head. Patrick only noticed because the light on his helmet moved around. "No, because there would have been barracks or something outside, and you wouldn't have all the civilian cars here."

Patrick thought, looking around. "Well, there's another door behind you."

Colonel Granger turned around. "Hmmm, so there is." He managed to open it as well, just like the other door. Only after opening this one did Granger realize that the lock was still in place, just torn out of the weakened concrete walls.

The Enclave officer was the first to go through the door, which lead to a tunnel that was sloped downhill, occasionally with steps built in on the steeper spots. Patrick followed right behind. The air in here was even more musty and damp than upstairs. Patrick nearly slipped a couple of times, but conveniently placed handrails on the walls prevented him from falling.

"Damnit, I wish there were some lights in places like these," Patrick grumbled.

The followed the path, which seemed to be looping around and around, until they finally reached a large cave like excavated area. It was still pitch black, and Patrick could barely see the hand he stuck out in front of his face. His Pip-Boy light, and Colonel Granger's more powerful helmet mounted light, could only illuminate so much.

Colonel Granger turned around slowly, the soft yellow light casting a glow on the walls of the cave. Almost right opposite of the pathway, he stopped. A huge, circular metal door, with the number 63 painted in the middle, greeted them.

"This is Vault 63?" Colonel Granger asked himself. He walked up to the door and looked around, noticing the control panel off to the side. Colonel Granger looked at it for a moment, before he punched a combination into the keypad.

"Security Overwrite Code accepted. Please stand back," a garbled electronic voice said.

Klaxons sounded off, orange strobe lights filled the empty chamber. The whirring and whine of machinery behind the doors as it latched onto the massive cog-shaped door. With a screech and shower of sparks as metal slid along metal, the massive door was pulled into the Vault, and rolled to the side. Patrick and Colonel Granger looked at each other for a moment.

"You can say one thing about Vault-Tec," Patrick commented. "Most of their stuff is made to last. Except for Vault 53."

"Yeah, Vault-Tec knows how to build a giant hole in the ground all right. Allowed me and my family, and the entire Enclave to survive."

They walked in. Unlike Vault H near Winnipeg or the Enclave Vault, the walls were rusty and dirty, and the musty smell from earlier was even stronger in here. Massive radroaches scurried about, but otherwise it seemed the Vault was empty.

Patrick turned to the Colonel as they explored the entry area of the Vault, their flashlights still invaluable as there seemed to be no power. "So, what do you know about this Vault?"

Colonel Granger shook his head. "I wasn't briefed on Vault 63. I was just told it was in North Dakota, but because it wasn't part of my orders, neither Secretary Hawthorne or Speaker Graham allowed the information to be released." Colonel Granger was clearly not happy with that, and grumbled something about bureaucrats in the army's way.

"Why not? Aren't you the head of the Enclave's military?"

"Oh yeah, I am. But the Speaker and the Secretary, for all their disagreements and hatred of each other, agreed that those with guns had to be subservient to the politicians, and they made sure that my men and women only got the information we needed, when we needed it. The head of the Defense Intelligence Agency wasn't even allowed to talk to me directly without one of them in the room with me." The Colonel chuckled. "Didn't stop me from setting up my own clandestine intelligence service in the Vault to keep a tab on them."

Patrick hmmed, but didn't say anything else. Instead he opened one of the sliding doors and walked into the Vault itself.

Just like the entryway, it was dark. The walls were red with rust, if not crumbling, broken piping littered the floor, debris ranging from rocks to suitcases, broken robots and crates filled the halls.

"It looks like something went wrong here," Patrick said.

"Yeah. Maybe the Overseer's office will have some information?" Colonel Granger suggested.

They turned a corner, and found themselves on the lower level of a two story atrium. Patrick looked up toward the second floor, but his light wasn't strong enough to reach the second floor to show anything up there.

"Man, this is creepy," Patrick whispered.

"I was just thinking of that," Colonel Granger replied. "I have a feeling something is just going to hop out at any moment."

They carefully picked their way through the hall, avoiding long tables with chairs bolted to the floor, with some plates, glasses, boardgames and half ruined pieces of paper.

"Okay, so where is the staircase?" Patrick asked, cautiously looking around all around him, before he suddenly stepped on something that snapped and crunched under his foot.

Patrick looked down, and gasped to see his foot having crushed a ribcage, his foot where the heart and lungs should have been.

"Ahhh!" he screamed, shaking his foot. "What the fuck was that?"

Colonel Granger turned to Patrick, his light on Patrick as he finally shook the ribcage off his foot, and backed up to the Colonel, very nervous to stumble on another skeleton. All around him was a lot of bones, an innumerable number of skeletons piled to the side.

"Jesus," Granger whispered. Patrick was dumbfounded at the sight. It seemed like almost a hundred skeletons were all piled up in that corner.

"Yeah… something really went wrong."

They further they explored the atrium, the more skeletons they found, along with discarded weapons like 10mm pistols, BB guns, assault rifles, laser weapons, baseball bats and police batons. In some places, the wall and floor had thicker and darker red spots, most likely dried blood from when someone was hurt or killed.

When they arrived at a stairway and elevator that went up and down, they decided to split up. Colonel Granger would go down below and see if there was a working generator to turn on some power, and Patrick was going to go upstairs to the Overseer's Office and figure out what happened.

"Our Pip-Boys should be able to allow us to communicate back and forth if need be," Colonel Granger said, before telling Patrick the frequency to switch too. Patrick did so. "We can test it when I get down a floor. Got it?"

"Yes sir," Patrick said, giving a mocking salute. Colonel Granger gave a small chuckle and clanked his way to the stairs leading down. Patrick went up.

The top floor of the Vault had a few residential rooms, most with the door still wide open allowing Patrick a chance to glimpse inside. Some of the rooms looked like a tornado went through: the beds and tables upended, more skeletons lying around, including one precariously hanging over a table, a 10mm submachine gun on the floor under his hand.

But just the next room over, it looked like it had been perfectly preserved, like what happened to some houses that had been encased in the ice of the glacier up north. Patrick had seen pictures of entire towns that were suddenly buried under ice a hundred years ago suddenly turning up again when the glacier melted. The rooms would be soggy, but it was surprising what survived: something as delicate as a vase would be left exactly where it was, while a massive steel safe would be crushed and bent into impossible shapes.

One room in the Vault in particular struck Patrick. There were four beds in the room, and they were all a bit messed up, a couple drawers were open with old ratty clothes hanging from them, and stuck to the wall was a faded poster for a pre-war show called The Adventures of Captain Cosmos, with a heroic space man holding a ray gun, with a space-suit wearing monkey on his shoulder. Some toys were still on the floor, including a moth eaten teddy bear, trucks and cars with the paint nearly peeled off, and some old comic books. In all, it looked like a few kids slept and played here. And it reminded him a lot of his and Zach's room back home in Melita.

Patrick may have stood in the doorway a bit longer than he should have, imagining himself and Zach, in happier times, long before raiders came and destroyed it all.

"Patrick, can you hear me?" Colonel Granger's voice came over Patrick's Pip-Boy. Patrick shook his head and lifted the wrist mounted device up to hear it better.

"Yep, I can hear you."

"Have you found the Overseer's office?"

"No, lots of rooms up here to look for," Patrick said.

"Check for a sign hanging from the roof. It should point you in the right direction."

"Okay," Patrick said, and turned and began following the hallway again. He noticed a sign that pointed out different amenities and where to find them: the cafeteria was to the left, the washrooms were to the right, and straight ahead was the Overseer's office.

Patrick hoofed his way in the pointed direction, and came up to the door to the Overseer's Office. There wasn't a terminal locking the door, and unlike when he was sneaking around in Vault H - nearly a month ago… how time flies! - he was able to just enter the office.

The office was a disaster. More skeletons, more discarded weapons, more dark brown dried blood all over. Patrick could still see the bullet holes in the desk, couches and walls. Fortunately, it looked like none of them hit the computer. But the device wouldn't turn on.

"Okay, I'm at the Overseer's office. No power up here for the terminal."

"Just give me a second," Colonel Granger replied. "Aaaand…"

Suddenly all the lights in the room, and the Vault outside the window that overlooked the Atrium all flashed on. "Hey presto!" Colonel Granger shouted.

Patrick was blinded by the sudden light, and it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. The computer in front of Patrick gave a loud beep, and began to whir to life. The electronic clicking of letters being displayed on screen dragged Patrick's attention to the black and green monochrome monitor.

PLEASE ENTER PASSWORD was on the screen, with a blinking line right after. Patrick grumbled. It was never easy to get into these old terminals, even if there was something worth seeing.

Patrick told Colonel Granger of the situation. The Enclave officer took a few minutes to get back. "Okay, I'll be right up there to use the override codes."

"You have override codes?"

"Yeah. Vault-Tec gave the Enclave a wide variety of codes, for everything from the front door to the mainframe terminals. Should be able to access it in a moment. Hold on."

Patrick waited for the Colonel, picking up and looking at the weapons. The 10mm's were pretty much all intact and could still fire, a testament to their famed reliability, and the reason why they were still used 140 years after the bombs fell. The Assault rifles would need a bit of work to get working, but the laser pistols weren't in very good shape at all, most of the electronics having corroded with time. Patrick was just checking out one of the assault rifles when Colonel Granger came in.

"Well, it looked like someone had just shut off the main generator. Which is odd, I'd have thought that it would have been totally out of juice if it had just been left on," Colonel Granger said.

"Maybe somebody did leave?" Patrick said. "Someone turn it off beforehand?"

"I dunno, but let's get that computer code cracked." Colonel Granger deactivated his power armor, the back opening up to allow the human encased inside to slip out. He stretched and yawned as he walked over to the terminal. "Oh, and I made a stop in the water purification station," Colonel Granger said, pulling a hand-sized object out of the side of the power armor that could hold something that small, and handed it to Patrick. "It's a bit dusty, but it doesn't look like it's damaged."

Vacuum tubes, wires, thermionic valves and other things all stuck out of a small metal board that was surprisingly not rusted all to hell. Patrick brushed his finger over a corner with a small plaque, with the words etched in: "VAULT-TEC© WATER SYSTEM COMPUTER CONTROLLER CHIP; PATENT 54,987,990 REG. TM. 2054"

"Well, this looks like what Metigoshe needs," Patrick said with a smile. "Can't believe it took this long to find one."

Colonel Granger had gone over to the desk, sitting down at the chair in front of the computer, pulled a white connector out of the back of his Pip-Boy, and plugged it into a slot on the side of the terminal. He clicked and tapped a few buttons on the Pip-Boy, and soon the Pip-Boy and computer were electronically chirping away.

Colonel Granger yawned. "Man, I'm ready for a sleep."

"I wouldn't blame you one bit," Patrick said after he yawned.

"I just dunno about sleeping in here."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Well, the fact that at least a few hundred people were killed here, for one thing. Just makes it all feel a bit… creepy."

"You scared?" Patrick asked with a smirk.

"No! I'm just… well… Oh look, the password worked!" Colonel Granger said, turning his attention to the terminal.

Patrick continued his grin. "I'm sure there wouldn't be any g-g-ghosts here," he said with a laugh, making the Colonel scowl a bit as he typed on the computer's keyboard. "But, to be honest, the bed's here won't be in terrible shape, there's got to be food in the cafeteria we could grab, and nothing more serious than a radroach is here. I'm sure we'll be fine. We might even have a better sleep that out in the Wasteland."

Colonel Granger tapped at the keyboard a bit more. "Okay, Overseer's files. Vault-Tec Orders… here."

Patrick leaned on the chair behind Colonel Granger and looked over his shoulder.

CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL

OVERSEER EYES ONLY | VIOLATION VTP-01011

Vault 63 is designed to test the interaction between two groups of people from rival nationalities that have been forced to live in a confined space together. For this test, two population samples will be provided: the first population is 500 American citizens, chosen according to their scores in the Applied Mental Examination Regarding International Candidates And Nations (AMERICAN) Test. This test was devised by Vault-Tec to find the most patriotic and loyal American citizens among the many candidates who applied for Vault 63. The other population of 500 residents of the Vault will be Chinese Prisoners of War from Clancy Detention Facility.

The Vault is designed and to be equipped, populated, and maintained in such a way that interaction between the two populations is impossible to avoid. The role of the Overseer is to not interfere in the any interactions between the two populations, instead monitoring the interactions that naturally occur between the two populations. In the event that disputes arise, the role of the Overseer is not to resolve the dispute, but instead to monitor how the populations resolve it themselves. Under no circumstances is any staff of Vault 63 to intervene in any dispute unless it threatens the structural integrity of the Vault, personal safety, or the provision of services to the Vault residents. They are not allowed to keep the populations segregated unless it's the mutual conclusion of both groups.

All staff members are required to have a good understanding of both Chinese and English and may translate between the two populations, but only if asked too. All staff will make a report in regard to any translations and conversations that occur to the Overseer or to the designated representative of the Overseer.

The Vault Door will remain locked for 10 years, at which point it will be opened. The Overseer is not allowed to reveal this information to any other Vault Dweller or Vault Staff until the designated date. Vault 63 has been equipped with two Garden of Eden Creation Kits (G.E.C.K.)

"Wow," was all Patrick could say. "This place must have been a bloodbath."

Colonel Granger took a deep breath, before going to another file, this one from the Overseer' personal log, dated October 23, 2077.

Today is the end of the world. I got the call at my home in Fargo to report to the Vault immediately at around 6 this morning. As I was on the road, I heard the All-Media Emergency Warning go off. About half an hour later, there was a blinding flash behind me. Must have been nukes landing at Grand Forks Air Force Base. I couldn't stop and look, and kept going. I was lucky to make it to the Vault around 9 AM, and was able to get the staff ready to process the arrival of the American population for the Vault, as most of them would have been driving from Fargo and Grand Forks. The Chinese population had already been here for about two weeks and were getting settled in. This is their home now, as it is mine and 500 of my fellow countrymen.

You know, the Chinese aren't that bad. Not as bad as the news and movies have made them out to be. They seem just like us, although speaking a foreign language, different colored skin and the taint of a Communist ideology, but that's not their fault entirely. They are clean, courteous and polite. I've found myself talking a lot with Lieutenant Woo, a soldier during the Anchorage Reclamation, and the nominated "leader" of the Chinese population here. He's a mild mannered man, very smart, hardworking, and willing to listen to other people, and help out his fellow prisoners. I only wish I could be half as great as he is when I'm running the Vault.

The first American vault dwellers are arriving now. I should go welcome them to their new home for the duration of the apocalypse.

Colonel Granger switched to another personal log, dated October 25, 2077.

I had an emergency meeting with my staff today. The experiment has already gone off the rails, at least I think it has. The scientists here were actually excited about what happened. Anti-social jerkwads.

Within 12 hours of the door closing, there have been 54 reported physical altercations, 23 physical altercations, and 2 murders, both Chinese. However, the orders from Vault-Tec are clear: there is to be no deviation from the experiment.

Lieutenant Woo came to my office today, demanding to know why Chinese prisoners and American citizens are in the same Vault. I couldn't tell him that Vault-Tec did it on purpose, so I just said it must have been a mistake. Woo demanded that I do something to try to prevent any more violence. Again, I couldn't tell him Vault-Tec said I can't do anything, so I just said I will look into what I can do.

I hope everyone here realizes that blind nationalism will only lead to their destruction.

Colonel Granger hesitated a moment before he selected the October 26th entry.

I talked to Dr. Kramer, the leading Vault-Tec scientist here. I demanded he allow me to cancel the experiment, because what is going on in just going to lead to everyone's death. Dr. Kramer basically began to scream at me, calling me a "traitor," a "pinko Commie," and an "obstruction to science."

This isn't science. This is murder. This is sadistic, horrifying, ghastly murder. I told him so.

He then said that if I had a problem with it, that he would gladly let me walk out the front door, and that he would take over. But we both know that whatever is going on outside the Vault would be ten times worse than what is happening now. So I should just shut up, sit in my office, and let the experiment run its course.

I told him that I would just arrest him and end the experiment. Then he just stared at me, with those unblinking, black eyes, and asked "With you and what army?"

He told me that there are other Vault-Tec agents here to make sure that I nor anyone else ruin the experiment. Even he didn't know who they were.

I thought I was the Overseer of this Vault, the guy in charge. But I'm just a figurehead. A useless, space-taking figurehead. I might as well be the Vice-President.

October 29, 2077, was the next entry.

Fuck Vault-Tec. Fuck those scientists, Fuck everything. I now have 98 murdered dwellers and 9 security personnel who weren't able to defend themselves. Dr. Terry at the Clinic is overloaded with cases and demanding I do something, the Security Chief is demanding I go against the orders and isolate at least the troublemakers. But I can't. Dr. Kramer would have me thrown out and take over, ensuring the experiment will continue. If he dies, then some person, who I don't know, will just make sure that the experiment will continue no matter what. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!

This Vault won't survive till the end of next month unless I do something. But I can't. Vault-Tec set this experiment up to fail, didn't it?

The last recording, October 31, 2077.

It's full scale civil war. The Americans, every man, woman and child, are trying to purge the Chinese. The Chinese managed to infiltrate the armory and cleared out all the weapons, and are using them to defend themselves, and as they are former soldiers, they are doing a remarkable job. Lieutenant Woo has managed to turn them into an effective fighting force. The security guards are dead or hiding. Dr. Terry was killed when a grenade was thrown into the Clinic. Hell I bet those fucking scientists that are looking over this experiment are all dead now as well. Rot in hell, Dr. Kramer.

I... I can't do anything now. Even if I wanted too, I can't break them up, can't isolate them, try to control the nightmare here. I locked the doors to my office to get away from it all. I'm a fucking coward. I should have went against the orders. I should have isolated the Chinese and Americans. This is all my fault.

I'm sorry for everything I've done. Maybe someday, some horribly mutated being that is trying to establish a new world will find this place. I just hope they learn from the old world's mistakes and make it a lot better than this one.

Good-bye.

Patrick and Colonel Granger looked at the terminal, before Colonel Granger sighed. "I… I know you are most likely thinking that I should have known about this, or have something to say to defend Vault-Tec. But I don't. Not this time."

Patrick slowly nodded. "I think we should go lie down," Patrick said with a yawn. "Then we leave, close the door, and never come back."

Colonel Granger was in no position, thought, or temperament to argue.

Pip-Boy InfoTracker Note #9351

Fargo News-Dispatch, October 4, 2077

Camp Clancy: Home for the Enemies of America

By July Olivia

In the fight against Red China, it is inevitable that we would capture some of the enemy while we fight them. The reclamation of Anchorage has resulted in thousands of Chinese prisoners of war being captured as our brave soldiers reclaimed our own lands. Many of those prisoners have been shipped to the Continental US, with the main intention of ensuring they would not be able to flee and return to help their "comrades" back in Asia.

One of the most important facilities in the POW system is Camp Clancy, set up about 60 miles north-west of Fargo. Here, in the middle of America, the most dangerous and highest ranking Chinese prisoners are brought, to make it much, much harder for them to not only break out, but to then return to China to fight us elsewhere.

"We pride ourselves with our secure defenses," Colonel Bryson Randolph said. "With electrified fences, the best Protectons, Mister Gutsy's and Sentry Bots to patrol and automated turrets, I'm 100% sure that not a single prisoner would ever escape this facility.

In a tour of the camp, I got to see some of the housing and facilities that the Chinese POWs are given. Their barracks are sturdy but spartan, able to withstand the cold winters and hot summers of North Dakota, and they have decent rations, much like what our soldiers in the field would eat. This is much better than what most Red Chinese would eat, even at home: bread, meat, cheese, soda, and many other products that is much better than their rice and tea. The POWs seem content and happy to finally be away from Communism. Colonel Randolph said that re-education courses are available to teach them the benefits of capitalism and democracy.

"I hope that these POWs can be used as the basis for a new, free and market oriented China," Colonel Randolph said. "This will make the entire war a worthwhile cause."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Bomber City was a rather odd name for a town Patrick thought as he and Colonel Granger approached after a long day of walking and riding north from Vault 63. First, it wasn't anything close to a city. At most, it had about 3,000 people, which, while large in many respects in the Wasteland where most people would have lived in small villages or tribes (and it was a lot bigger than Melita), but it was absolutely nothing compared to Winnipeg, or even Brandon.

Second, there was no bomber anywhere in sight. Apparently a Chinese bomber had crashed right in the middle where the town now is, but had long since been scrapped for the metal. It made it, well, odd that they kept the name.

When they reached the town, which unlike most towns didn't have a wall around it, they just meandered into the center of town, around a large, train station that looked fairly new, built within the past thirty or so years. The wood, most likely from the forests up north, was painted a dull red, and it had the shape of any small town's UAR train station, with BOMBER CITY printed in large white words on the roof and on a sign where people could see it. In front of the train station there was a large open square where a bustling market was located. The dirt had been so well trod on it was hard as concrete, and not even the most stubborn of weeds tried to grow there.

A few people noticed Colonel Granger in his power armor, but unlike other places where the power armor would have made him stand out, and possibly made people scared that he was from the Brotherhood of Steel, the people here seemed to gravitate toward him, asking him questions and commenting, usually positively on the armor.

One person near Patrick even go a low whistle when he saw Colonel Granger.

"That's some fancy tech the Brotherhood has now. Hopefully they put it to good use."

"He's not Brotherhood, he's from the Enclave," Patrick replied.

"Really? Well, hopefully the Enclave will help us out then."

Before Patrick could ask what it was, the man disappeared in the crowd.

There were groups of three or four soldiers slowly prowling the market, their weapons slung on their backs. They were looking everywhere for any danger, and they were clearly nervous. They wouldn't have been much older than Patrick: they were most likely from Winnipeg, signed up for the army to get out of poverty or barely subsistence living.

But the looks of the populace on their back was anything but friendly. Men and women spat toward the soldiers, the wads always landing just a few inches from their boots. A couple people flipped the bird or cursed them. One person, Patrick couldn't tell where, shouted "Dakota!" Another shouted "Asses go home!"

"Tough crowd," Patrick said when Colonel Granger finally caught up to him.

"Yeah. Say, want to get a drink?"

"I could use one, yeah," Patrick answered.

There was a small inn perched on the edge of the market, and a handful of men and women hung around the door in various stages of sobriety. Patrick and Colonel Granger pushed the door into the bar.

It was smokey from a fireplace in the corner and the cigarettes and pipes puffing away from the denizens, some of whom looked up to see who came in. Once again, comments about the power armor attracted attention, but most people didn't seem to care much. A bartender in a white shirt and black vest and grey hair balding on top was at the front of the bar, polishing the counter when Patrick and Colonel Granger came up.

He looked up from his dirty rag. "Huh, new people. Don't see many new people around here."

"Oh?" Patrick asked, before ordering a couple of beer, and paying for it with some real Assiniboian pounds. The two ice-cold bottles were produced from under the counter and the money was taken. "Why is that?"

"Martial Law here in Bomber City has kept most traders and travelers away," he said. "Not to mention that passenger service had been discontinued on the train, with only those given military approval allowed to come in." The bartender sighed. "It's done a number on the town. Most of the people here in the bar used to be working with the UAR or the caravan companies that come to town. But now they are more or less laid off, with nothing to do."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Patrick said. "But Martial Law?"

"You aren't from around here, huh?" The man shrugged Well, it's been three or four months since it was put in place," the bartender said. "A protest against Assiniboia turned rowdy, soldiers fired at the crowd, killed 15. Rioting and looting took place, and only Martial Law, a flood of soldiers and RAMP officers prevented the town from going up in smoke."

"Why are the people here against Assiniboia?" Patrick asked.

"You really aren't from around these parts, huh?" The bartender asked Patrick. Patrick shook his head. "Well, I'll fill ya in: There is a chunk of the town, not anywhere near a majority, that wants Assiniboia to leave, 'Give Dakota back to Dakotans,' and all that crap. They call themselves the Free Dakota Movement."

"Free Dakota, huh?" Colonel Granger asked. "People wanting to re-establish America or something?"

"I dunno," the barkeep said. "Most of them don't really care about some old, dead nation that was destroyed. All they want is Assiniboia to leave." The barkeep may have noticed the falling expression on Colonel Granger's face, but he didn't say anything.

"Then there are a few people, a small minority really, mostly folks originally from up north, that want the area to remain. They don't speak up much, because nasty things happen to people that oppose Free Dakota.

"Then there's everyone else, the largest chunk of people in town, who just want to live. I don't care if it's Assiniboia, a free Dakota, or a Republic of Dave that rules. Just so long as I can keep my inn, I'd be happy. Most of the people here just want to have a safe, secure life, like everyone wants in the Wasteland."

Patrick nodded softly. "I see." He tipped back and polished off his beer as a heavily bearded, dirty man hiccupped for another whiskey, which the bartender provided. "Well thanks for the info. And the beer."

"Of course," the barkeep said, having not smiled or raised his voice above a dull whisper.

"One more thing though. If I do want to get a train ride, where would I go?" Patrick asked.

"Ah. You'll have to go talk to the military admin here. Though whoever is in charge, he's not exactly… willing to accommodate people. But I guess you can ask."

Patrick nodded, and set the beer on the counter. Colonel Granger sat his bottle next to Patrick's, and they walked out.

It was easy to tell where the soldiers were. A dozen or more long columns of smoke reached into the sky to the east of the market, so Patrick and Colonel Granger went that way.

The Enclave man wasn't really happy, and possibly on the verge of depression.

"I have no idea if the Enclave could ever rebuild America, if no one cares about it," he said. "Even if all the Dakota territories were free from Assiniboia, would they even want to follow the Enclave?"

Patrick could tell the Colonel was feeling down about it. "Well, I dunno. Maybe the Enclave is just going to have to try to prove to the Wasteland that it is the best thing they can hope for. Peace, security, freedom, etc. etc."

Colonel Granger wasn't in a mood to be consoled. "I have no idea how we can do that. The Enclave is an unknown here, and we aren't exactly large, and we really don't have the resources to provide a standard of living better than subsistence level farming." He kicked at a rock on the ground that, thanks to the strength of his power armor, went hopscotching across the packed dirt road. "The Enclave has been thinking for 140 years what to do when they leave the Vault, and that plan we had, just won't work. And if Speaker Graham figures that out, I have no idea what he will try to do."

The name triggered a memory in Patrick's memory, the note that the ghoul General at Minot gave him on the Pip-Boy, to not trust a Graham. But, really, after seven or eight generations, would the same character traits be there?

Patrick and Colonel Granger turned the corner, and they were immediately confronted with a half-dozen Assiniboian army soldiers. They were all in the same, olive green uniform, with only some smaller, gold coloured stripes (or lack thereof) to differentiate ranks. They were all some variation of jittery, nervous, or startled as Patrick and Colonel Granger, a dirty, disheveled wanderer with an entire arsenal of powerful weaponry attached to his backpack or slung on his hip and a man in a seven foot tall suit of power armor, with a lot of dirt and grime from weeks of use.

"Halt!" one of them, an old, grizzled sergeant from the stripes on his sleeves, said as he slightly lowered his service rifle. "Who the hell are you two? And what's with the power armor? It's not like any I've seen before."

"I'm Colonel Granger, Commander of the Enclave Armed Forces, and this is my power armor," the Colonel said after he took off his helmet to show the Sergeant that he wasn't some robot.

"Oh, yeah, I heard of you Enclave fellers," the sergeant said, before spitting on the ground. "Apparently you guys are becoming really chummy up in Winnipeg with all the high and mighty politicians and shit. But this ain't Winnipeg." He sneered, then turned to Patrick, sitting high atop Hardtack's back. "And who are you?"

"I'm… they call me the Auxiliary," Patrick replied.

The sergeant paused, staring right at Patrick. "I highly doubt that kid."

Patrick stiffened up a bit. "I've been hunting for my brother Zach for about two months now, fought raiders and uncovered plots against Assiniboia, traveled through land that belongs to the Brotherhood, and somehow have made it through pretty much alive. I don't like to brag about it, but I'm the goddamned Auxiliary that everyone keeps talking about!"

The sergeant gave a small whistle. "No shit? I thought he'd be older than some teenager, if what the radio is saying about what you do is half true. And taller."

"Nope, I'm the Auxiliary," Patrick replied, giving a weary smile. Why did everyone think he'd be taller?

The sergeant shook his head. "Well, what a day. A guy in a fancy tin can and the biggest Goddamned hero in Assiniboia, both showing up in this backwards dump in the middle of nowhere." The sergeant shook his head again.

"Dump?" Patrick said. The town actually looked well kept, compared to places like New California and Hardingville.

"Full of 'Free Dakota!' types, morons who want to leave Assiniboia, or worse, destroy our country. People that would rather shoot you than talk to you. But because we have the powerful guns and the entire army at our back, they won't do anything. Yet." The sergeant spat again.

"You think there is a problem?" Patrick asked

"There is always a problem. We've managed to keep a lid on it so far, but if something happens, it will start here."

"Huh," Patrick said. Colonel Granger was very quiet, but the shuffling he made in his armor made it clear he wasn't really comfortable right now.

"Anyway, you better go talk to Lieutenant-Colonel Kerry Rochford. He's in the largest tent at the camp just over there." He pointed to a cluster of tents. "He can sort you guys out. Maybe." His voice said he wasn't so sure.

"Thanks," Patrick said. "May I ask what regiment you are part of?"

"The Royal Winnipeg Rifles, The Little Black Devils," the sergeant said with a cockeyed grin. "This is the First Battalion, one of the best units in the entire Assiniboian army. Isn't that right boys?" There was a loud cheer among the other soldiers in earshot, followed by hollars of "Little Black Devils!"

One of the young private's (riflemen, they prefered to be called) lead Patrick and Colonel Granger to the the row of tents that were perfectly lined up on a grid pattern. The green tents would have held about ten people, and were designed to be tough in Assiniboia's weather, able to withstand all the elements that were thrown at it.

The soldiers inside the little tent city were all wearing a dark green uniform, with only some patches on the shoulder to identify the unit they were part of, as well as a similar badge on their peaked cap or helmet, that of a black figure running on a red background, with a huge wreath of silver maple leafs and scrolls around it, topped with a crown.

The arrived at the tent with "CO TENT" painted on the outside. The rifleman pulled open the flap and allowed them to enter, and held on to Patrick's Sleipnir.

Inside the tent several soldiers sat at different radios with headsets, talking into them, while others were busy writing on clipboards and some were looking at maps. For the most part, they seemed pretty relaxed and calm, though there was a tense undercurrent underneath it all.

Three officers were at a table, one sitting and talking, the other two standing and taking notes. The officer sitting in the chair glanced at the tent flap as it opened up. Before Patrick could even get his eyes to adjust to the darker area, he was being bombarded by a booming, loud voice.

"Who the hell are you? Civilians aren't allowed in here. Much less someone in enemy armor!" The soldier with a perfectly trimmed brown mustache on his lips said, rising up from his chair. He was the only one of the three officers to wear all the marks of his office, that of a Lieutenant-Colonel, including Sam Browne belt and pistol securely clasped into it's holster, peaked cap, a shoulder board with a "pip" and a maple leaf, and perfectly polished brass buttons on his uniform. He must have been the person in charge of the First Battalion.

"People call me the Auxiliary," Patrick said. "And this is Colonel Gabriel Granger, Chief of Staff of the Enclave Armed Forces."

Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stopped, looked at the two, and sat down again. "Eh, yeah, sure. Whatever." He looked at Patrick. "So, the Auxiliary, eh? I'd have thought you would be taller."

"Why does everyone think that?" Patrick muttered under his breath, loud enough just for Colonel Granger to hear it, and he gave a small chuckle.

"And the Enclave? Those people in the Vault near Brahmin Crossing?"

"That would be correct, yes," Granger said.

"Well, surprised that a fella like you is out here," Rochford said, before he shook his head. "Well, what can I do for you folks?"

"Ss it possible for me to get a train ride out of here? Say, to Winnipeg?"

"Carlson!" Lieutenant Colonel Rochford barked instead of answering.

A man in a major's uniform and glasses standing near by stiffened and gave a salute. "The next train doesn't come in until tomorrow evening. But I can look into arranging passage on it for you, Sir!"

Patrick blinked. Major Carlson, who was also in a perfectly kept uniform seemed nervous and soft spoken but trying to project some air of confidence, but failing. It didn't help that he was a bit short and had a pair of glasses that made his eyes seem cartoonishly bigger than they should have been.

"Well, I guess that's the best option we have right now."

"Unless you want to start hoofing it, it is." Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford shifted in his seat. "Alright, find them somewhere to sleep, get them food, all that crap. And I don't want either of you in here again, or interfering with my men, or just getting in the way like you civilians always do, got it?"

Colonel Granger's eyes twitched. In this exchange, he should be the superior, both for his rank and his position in the Enclave as the leader of the entire military establishment there. And a civilian? He was the furthest thing from that! And this tin-pot soldier had the gall to consider himself superior? He clenched his fists, trying his best not to hit the smug mustachioed bastard in his face.

"Thank you," Patrick said, and gave a small knock on Colonel Granger's armor, snapping the Enclave officer out of his anger fueled trance. The Colonel turned around and stomped right out.

"Who the hell does he think he is?" Colonel Granger asked Patrick as he stepped out of the tent, trying once again to keep his temper under control. Patrick had never seen him get angry like this before.

"I don't know," Patrick admitted, taking Hardtack's reins from the rifleman.

The soldier then pointed out the tent that they would be assigned to, pointing out where the washrooms, showers, and mess hall were. "Also, I highly recommend that you don't go into town, and just stay here until the train comes."

"Why is that?" Patrick asked.

"The folks here… they don't take too kindly to Assiniboians. Or anyone associating with Assiniboians." The rifleman gave a salute and meandered back to his squad.

"What is the story with this place?" Colonel Granger asked Patrick later, after they had both showered and wore a pair of Assiniboian-issue army outfits, in an olive green that wasn't far removed from anyone else's uniform, just short the patches and hat.

"Bomber City was the center of what they called the 'Provisional Republic of Dakota,' and tried to leave Assiniboia around… 2173, if I remember right. There was a brutal war that lasted for years. But you can see what the outcome was."

Colonel Granger was about to say something when their tent flap opened, and Major Carlson stepped in. He was nervous, shaking as if he was on drugs, and paler than a ghost.

"Major? What are you doing here?" Patrick asked.

He took a deep breath, and adjusted the Nuka-Cola bottle glasses on his nose. "Auxiliary, I need your help."

"What is going on?"

"A couple soldiers have been severely injured in a fight in town. The details are a bit sketchy, but as far as we know, it was a civilian that started the fight. Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford has been looking for an excuse to start imprisoning and executing everyone in Bomber City, all to try to restore order and end the long simmering revolt here. But if he takes this action, taking the entire battalion and sweeping through the city, it will be bloodshed, both for the city and our unit. He's calling it Operation Custer."

"Why do you say that?" Patrick queried.

"There is intelligence that there are large stashes of military grade weapons and ammo in town, even though it is illegal for anyone in town to have anything more powerful than a hunting rifle." Major Carlson adjusted his glasses with trembling hands. "We have no idea how they got here, all I know is that if the Lieutenant-Colonel provokes the situation, they will use it."

"Haven't you told him? Wouldn't that be enough to dissuade him?" Colonel Granger asked.

Major Carlson shook his head. "I did tell him, showed him the reports from agents here in town. He brushed them aside, saying that the people here would never dare attack Assiniboian troops. Then turning around and saying that because there are forbidden weapons here, the operation should go forward."

"Shit," Patrick cursed. "When is this happening?"

"Tonight, at 0200 hours." Major Carlson pulled a pocket watch out of his pocket. "That's in about five hours."

"That idiot is going to kill a lot of people. Does he not know that?" Colonel Granger asked.

"If he does, he doesn't care," Major Carlson said.

Colonel Granger was furious again. "How in the Chinese Communist Hell did he become a soldier in the first place? A commanding officer even? He should be thrown into the deepest, darkest hole in the Wasteland and forgotten about!"

"He's the nephew of a high ranking Member of Parliament back in Winnipeg," Major Carlson said. "If anything, that's why he's trying to do this, to make himself and his family look good. With a war with the Brotherhood of Steel brewing, Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford wants to be transferred to the front lines, somewhere where he can prove his worth and get further promoted." Major Carlson sighed, and flopped into a nearby wooden chair.

"Politics," Colonel Granger snarled. "I know politics from the Enclave all too well."

"Every position from Battalion Commander upwards is all ordered by the Department of Defense in Winnipeg, and although there are many smart and brave soldiers, it depends on who you know more than what you know that gets you promoted. If I remember right, he only got the post to convince his uncle to vote for a certain bill three years ago." Major Carlson sighed again. "Not to say that there aren't some smart people that can balance the politics and the military, but Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford isn't one of them."

"And he will kill lots of well trained, proud Assiniboian soldiers to do it, not to mention the hundreds of other people who live in this town, all for glory and heroism," Colonel Granger said.

"What do you want us to do?" Patrick asked.

"I need you talk sense into him. Maybe he'll listen to the Auxiliary, the hero of Assiniboia," Major Carlson suggested. "He keeps saying how much better Assiniboia would be if more people like you were around in the army. He won't listen to me or anyone else otherwise."

Patrick bit his lip. "Okay, I can try. But, if this doesn't work, what should we do after that?"

"I do have a backup plan. I will be looking to implement it if your talk fails." Major Carlson stood up, his hand shaking. "Go talk to him right away. He'll still be up in his tent right now."

Patrick nodded. Major Carlson saluted Colonel Granger, then slipped out of the tent, and disappeared into the night.

"Okay, I better go now," Patrick said. "You better stay here, just to be on the safe side."

"Yeah. I'd most likely smash his face in. Good luck," Colonel Granger said.

Patrick also left the tent, and walked over to the CO's tent. It was dark out, and only a few oil burning lamps hung on posts were used to illuminate the path and the base.

It was very quiet. Only the sound of marching boots, sleeping soldiers, and a small breeze cut through the night air.

Two sentries stood on either side of the tent. "State your business, Auxiliary."

"I've been asked to talk to the Lieutenant-Colonel," Patrick said.

The sentries looked at each other, but one of them shrugged. "Alright, go on in."

Patrick pushed into the tent, once again blinded by bright, mechanical lights. Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford was the only one in the tent, staring at a map of Bomber City. Patrick cleared his throat, bringing Rochford's attention to him. He quickly shuffled the maps under some other papers and books.

"Auxiliary, what the hell are you doing here? I told you to not interrupt me!"

"I'm sorry Lieutenant-Colonel," Patrick said. "But I would like to talk to you for a moment. I was told that you liked what you heard about me."

"Well, yes." Rochford said, slightly startled by the statement. "True. I think you've done a great service to Assiniboia, rooting out Brotherhood of Steel plots to undermine our nation, save the Dominion from dangers both within and without. I wish the men under my command would care half as much about their nation as you do."

"Well, thank you," Patrick replied. He was doing it only partially for his country. Zach was the real reason…

"In fact, tomorrow afternoon, before you go to Winnipeg, why don't you have dinner with me and my officers? My treat," Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford said, giving as much of a smile as his face would allow. In reality, all it did was make him look creepy and sinister. "Then you can tell us all about your adventures. Because I'm sure you have more to tell than the radio does."

"That is true, yes," Patrick said.

"Excellent! I'm sure we would be excited to hear about it."

"Alright. But, before I go, I have something I'd like to ask you about."

Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stood straight up, puffing his chest out. "Whatever you would like to know about."

"What is Operation Custer?" Patrick asked.

Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford froze in place, staring at Patrick. "Who the hell told you about it?" The officer demanded.

"I… heard talk around the camp of an upcoming operation, and some officer, I don't know who, said the name," Patrick partially lied and partially told the truth.

Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford snarled, but shook his head. "Fine, whatever. What do you want to know about my plan to pacify Bomber City, and this whole blasted region?"

"What I want to know is; why are you doing this?"

"To bring peace, order, and good government to Bomber City and all of the Devil's Lake District," he replied. "A strong show of force, a few hangings, a few imprisonments, and all should be safe. They will never bother an Assiniboian soldier again, knowing that I'm here and willing to use force to make them behave."

"What about the reports of weapons here in town?" Patrick asked.

"Nothing to be concerned about. We'll capture and neutralize them before anyone in town knows anything," The Lieutenant-Colonel said. "Now, tomorrow I can give you a full rundown of the results. But I want you-"

"Lieutenant-Colonel, although I've done a lot of things for Assiniboia since raiders destroyed my family's farm, such as defeating those raiders single handedly, stopped a massive spy ring, brought down the entire Syndicate in Brandon and rooted out corruption and gangsters and the morally bankrupt that threatens the nation that you proclaim to love, there is one thing I've learned: angry people, no matter the stripe, the creed, the nationality or belief, are not to be taken lightly."

"Auxiliary, I…"

"No, shut up. I'm talking now," Patrick said, his voice rising just a bit. "If you send your soldiers into Bomber City tonight, you will be walking into a bloodbugs nest. But these ones won't stop at just poking you, they will do their damndest to kill you and all of the soldiers of the Battalion. You will not be a hero, you will be a villain, killing hundreds, sparking a new civil war, one that Assiniboia can ill afford right now. So I ask you right now: please, for the love of God, mercy, Assiniboia, and everything else, do not order Operation Custer tonight."

Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stared at Patrick, his face turning red in anger. But unlike his underlings, Patrick would not be cowed.

"I guess I've completely misunderstood you. You aren't the Assiniboian patriot you claim to be, instead willing to coddle terrorists and bandits who rose up and attacked Assiniboia forty-five years ago to divide us. I am the ranking military officer here, in charge of keeping these rebellious bastards underfoot. Since they are clearly planning on trying to rise up again, I'm putting them down. And if you, or your fancy metal puppet get in the way, I'll destroy you too. Get out. Get out! That's an order!"

Patrick took a deep breath, and stomped out of the tent. After he took a few steps, Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stuck his head out of the tent. "And your uninvited from dinner as well!"

Patrick scowled, and stomped back to his tent. When he got there, Colonel Granger was in his power armor again, drinking a cup of coffee.

"So, how did it…" Colonel Granger started, before seeing Patrick's face. "Uhh… I'm guessing not well."

"Operation Custer is still a go. I need to talk to Major Carlson, immediately."

"He came back while you out, said that he was going to be in the mess hall. And he wanted me to wear my power armor and come with you if it didn't go well. I'm not sure why, but, here I am."

"Well, let's go," Patrick said, pushing his way out of the tent, and walking to the mess hall, which was guarded by some soldiers, who let in Patrick and Colonel Granger without even asking for confirmation.

The mess hall had about 20 men and women, mostly lieutenants and captains, with a few sergeants, including the one that greeted Patrick earlier. They were very quiet, talking to each other in hushed tones, if they talked at all. One female captain had her eyes closed and hands clasped together, silently saying a prayer. A young lieutenant was taking sips from a bottle of non-regulation whiskey. But it was nowhere near all the officers or NCOs of a battalion. Some of the officer's must have been considered a liability by Carlson, so only those that he knew he could trust were here.

Major Carlson was there as well, standing at one end of the room where the officers of the battalion could see him. As soon as he saw Patrick, he waved him over.

"The news?"

"He's not backing down."

"Shit," Major Carlson said, then took a deep breath. "Well, it's now or never then."

Major Carlson stepped up, and everyone else in the tent went silent. Only a radio playing DBS in the corner could be heard.

"Leaders of the First Battalion, I'm about to ask something of you that you may consider a crime, something that goes against the tradition of the Assiniboian Army, and could be seen as treason. However, if we are to maintain the peace in Bomber City, and ensure that the men that are assigned to us will live to see another day, I don't see any other possible alternative.

"As you know," Carlson continued, his voice soft so as to not carry outside the tent, "Tonight we are to put into place Operation Custer, the neutralization of any resistance here in Bomber City. However, intelligence says that the members of the resistance here in town are well armed, and ready to defend themselves if need be. Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford believes that this is a lie, and that they will just roll over and show us their bellies. But you should know better.

"The Auxiliary here tried to reason with our commanding officer, but to no avail. Therefore, the only option we have left is one that I have no pleasure in proposing. But we must remove Rochford from the command of this unit, before any lives are lost."

There was a stunned silence. Patrick was as stunned as everyone else in the tent. He couldn't remember a case where the soldiers of a regiment, even the officers, actually mutinying and overthrowing their CO. This was a huge step.

The female captain who was praying earlier stood up. "How do you think we can justify this? This is going against all the rules of the military."

"I know. Orders are to be followed, and are expected to be followed. However, I cannot justify massacring this town, and possibly this entire battalion, because of short sighted decision of Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford. We do not have enough time to talk to the General Staff in Winnipeg, or even Colonel Hemsworth in Fargo, even if we could have used the radio to talk to either. We have to act now, and the only way to do is to remove him."

Everyone was silent, many of them contemplating what Major Carlson had just said. After all, this was, technically a mutiny, treason even. Many of the men and women here had fought long and hard to get to where they were, in a military establishment that was heavily political and leaned toward those with power and influence than skill or intelligence. One wrong move: comment about someone to the wrong person, let loose what you may actually think to your superior, or even just making a joke about whoever was in Winnipeg would be enough to get someone kicked out, blackmailed, held back, or worse. There are soldiers in Stoney Mountain Prison there just for the crime of insulting the wrong person, and they were the lucky ones not dumped off into The Angle to the east, the death sentence given to the worst criminals and traitors of Assiniboia.

Some of the officers, the ambitious ones, were clearly contemplating leaving and telling Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford about what Major Carlson said, thinking it would help their careers. But those soldiers grounded by realism in the tent knew that it wouldn't matter if they turned Major Carlson in, if they were besieged and killed by the townsfolk anyway.

The sergeants, however, were a practical lot, with little to no interest in climbing the ranks. They knew better than anyone else the capabilities of the soldiers in First Battalion, and what they knew wasn't exactly promising. Sure, the soldiers were decently trained, had modern and well kept weapons, and the morale was satisfactory. But they were, nine men out of ten, raw recruits, sent here on garrison duty. Second Battalion was in Fargo, as they were the battle hardened part of the regiment. If they were here, then the issue of losing over 700 men wouldn't exactly be as great. But they were also outnumbered by the townsfolk five to one, were located in a very difficult to defend spot, the palisade of timber, train cars, and old Highwaymen notwithstanding. Hell, the train station was on the other side of town, making reinforcement or retreat impossible unless they fought for it.

Patrick turned to Colonel Granger, who was thinking of everything that Patrick was thinking, and most likely of bigger issues. The pale, fearful look on the Colonel's face told Patrick that what he was thinking wasn't good, in any situation.

The sergeant that Patrick first met stood up. "The Major is right. The Lieutenant-Colonel has to be neutralized."

"Kill our commanding officer?" A young Lieutenant, barely an adult, asked, his voice nearly breaking from the panic he was feeling.

"No. Sir," The sergeant said, though it was clear that he only threw in the honorific because of his rank, not for any respect he may have. "At least, we should plan on not killing him. Murder will be a bigger danger than mutiny."

"But what about our careers? If this goes wrong, we will all be kicked out… or worse," another captain said.

"Do you want to die in this fucking town because some fucker told us to just march out and shoot all the fucking Dakotan bastards we see?" The sergeant snapped back. "Sir?" That shut the captain up.

"Auxiliary," Major Carlson said, turning to Patrick. "What do you think?"

Patrick looked out over the twenty some people in the room, all officers and sergeants of the Assiniboian Army. Most were scared, though most of the sergeants masked their emotions. He could make or break this.

"I may not have any authority here, as I'm an Auxiliary of the RAMP, and before that was a member of the militia back home," Patrick admitted. "I'm not a soldier, though I've fought and killed a lot of people. But it was not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I'm pretty sure that none of you take pleasure in killing fellow human beings, even if they hate us, Assiniboia, and everything we hold dear. But that's not even true. Most of the people here in Bomber City are just trying to survive another day, and don't care if it's Assiniboia, the Republic of Dakota, the old USA, or some guy calling himself the Grand Poombaa. But if you attack those people, you will have the entire town, the entire district, up in arms against Assiniboia.

"This may not mean anything, coming from a young farmer thrown to the wolves because some raiders took my brother, but if you do what the Major is suggesting, I will support you guys, and do whatever I can do to help you, either tonight, tomorrow, or months down the road."

The room was silent again. The Sergeant from early made eye contact with Patrick and gave an amused smile. Patrick gave one back.

"Alright, Let's have a quick vote," Major Carlson said. "If it passes, we will go arrest Rochford. If it doesn't, then we will forget this conversation ever happened." Carlson took a deep breath. "All in favor of removing the Lieutenant-Colonel, raise your hand."

Everyone in the room raised their hand.

"All opposed?"

No one raised their hand.

Major Carlson took a deep breath, fixing the tie on his neck and picking up his peaked cap on the table nearby. "Then ladies and gentlemen, it is agreed. Let's do this."

The major quickly outlined the plan. It was very simple, and if everything went well, it would be over in about ten minutes. That was, if everything went according to plan. But they were running out of time: in half an hour, the Lieutenant-Colonel was going to sound the alarm, and have the soldiers still in bed woken up to "repel an attack," then go on the offensive, and put Operation Custer into effect.

Colonel Granger stood beside Patrick as the officers listened to Major Carlson. "I sure do hope this works."

"It should be fine," Patrick said. But he and Colonel Granger knew very well that it might not be.

The sergeant from earlier went to rouse his unit, and got them equipped and ready. Another sergeant was given some whispered orders, and he gave a salute and marched away. The other officers were given other instructions, quickly and quietly. As soon as they got them, ranging from rousing their troops to securing the armory to arresting and otherwise silencing the officers that Carlson knew were in cahoots with Rochford, no matter the suicidal plans he had.

"Auxiliary, I'm going to need your help with one thing," Major Carlson said after the last captain gave a salute and sprinted out of the tent.

"What is it?"

"I need you to somehow distract the Lieutenant-Colonel again. I don't care what you do. Tell him you're sorry, get him drunk, tell him the town is ready to explode," the Major said. "But he needs to be kept occupied for at least twenty minutes."

"Okay," Patrick said. "I don't know if he'll listen to me though."

"Whatever you got to do, do it." Major Carlson turned to Colonel Granger. "And I need you to do something as well."

Patrick left the tent, and scurried to the CO's tent. The two guards, however, were less amiable this time.

"The Lieutenant-Colonel will not see any visitors, especially you, Auxiliary," the soldier said.

"But this is important!" Patrick exclaimed. "I just heard that some of the resistance guys are arming and getting ready to attack!"

The two soldiers looked at each other, clearly unsure what to do. After all, he wasn't supposed to go in. But if the town was about to rise up... "Well… okay. I'm sure he'll want to hear that."

Patrick nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank you!"

He barged into the tent, with the Lieutenant-Colonel still looking over the maps. He looked up to see Patrick.

"Goddamnit, you son of a bitch, I told you not to come back here. Now get out!" His face gone red from anger.

"Sir, please," Patrick pleaded. "Look… I was thinking…"

"I don't care what you are thinking. You clearly are in cahoots with the rebels in this town, and I won't listen to your lies anymore!" He pulled out his revolver and aimed it at Patrick. "I will give you the count of three to leave, or your brains will be blown out!"

"Colonel, sir," Patrick said, lifting his arms up in surrender.

"One."

"Rochford…"

"Two…" He cocked the gun.

"I was wrong, you were right!" Patrick shouted.

"What?"

"You were right about the townsfolk. I think some of them are arming and getting ready to attack the base."

Rochford blinked. "What?"

"I don't know how or why… maybe they got word of your plan?"

"Impossible! Only myself and Major Carlson knew of Operation Custer!" Rochford exclaimed. "And Carlson knows better than to flab his lips."

Oh, how wrong you are, Patrick thought, then glanced at a clock hanging on the wall nearby. Ten minutes to go. "Either way, I think you will have to do something else, get the troops ready to attack or something."

Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford twirled his mustache in a thought, then slammed his fist on the table. "No."

"No?"

"No. If anything, this will make Operation Custer easier to put into effect. Motivate the troops while under fire," Rochford said, giving a grin.

"Uh, sir, won't that result in some of them being killed before they can fire back?" Patrick asked, concerned about what the man in charge of the battalion was saying.

"Necessary, if unfortunate losses," Rochford remarked. From his tone of voice, they were more necessary than unfortunate. "But either way, it will suit the purpose of Operation Custer, and therefore…"

Suddenly the lights in the tent went out. Only a few candles and lamps not running on the base's power generator were still on. The plan was in motion.

"What the… saboteurs! Someone cut the power!" Rochford cried out.

"Sir, I…"

"No! The troops will wait until the attack comes!" The officer shouted, clearly excited, giddy even, though Patrick could barely see him in the dark room. "This is just the thing I've been waiting years for!"

"What exactly?" Patrick asked.

"The moment when I will finally become a war hero, crush the rebels in this town, and…"

"Incoming!" Someone shouted outside. Patrick ducked as soon as he heard it, sheltering himself under the table. A loud explosion as a grenade landed nearby cut holes in the tent, shrapnel being flung everywhere, smashing into electronics, books, papers, and everything else in the way. More grenades quickly followed.

Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford was not as quick. He screamed out as shrapnel pierced his body in multiple places, tearing through his clothing and flesh. He fell to the ground, gasping for air, half his face ripped off by one of the explosions.. Patrick crawled over to the Lieutenant-Colonel, red staining the green fabric and turning it a sickly brown. Bloody froth formed on his lips as he struggled to breath, his whole body shaking and spasming. Before Patrick could do anything, he went limp with a gurgle, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

Major Carlson and several of the other officers, all armed with service rifles, barged into the tent. They were followed by Colonel Granger with his laser pistol.

"Oh my god!" The young lieutenant from earlier screamed. "We did kill him!"

"No. It was Dakotan Resistance," Major Carlson said, turning around and staring at the young man. "Right?"

"Err… yes. Right. Dakotan Resistance," he repeated. But he was pale, and went to the corner and vomited.

"Sorry about that Auxiliary. I hope it didn't hurt you," Major Carlson said.

"I was able to duck a bit quicker than the Lieutenant-Colonel," Patrick admitted.

"It's a shame he had to die. I was hoping that maybe, at the very least, he would have been injured and incapacitated. But this works just as well."

Outside, a volley of gunfire went off. Then everything was silent. No one in the tent breathed a word.

Major Carlson sighed, and turned to the officers after a long moment. "I'm going to contact the Colonel and the General Staff in Winnipeg with the news of what just happened here. Remember, none of us could do anything about it. The Dakotan resistance managed to sneak in and killed the Lieutenant-Colonel with grenades and shot some of the officers of the battalion."

A sergeant came forward with a couple bottles of whiskey, and opened the cork and dumped it over the papers on the table, the computers, the radio, beds, clothing, before dumping most of the rest on Rochford, and setting the bottle next to him. Major Carlson reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, grabbing a piece of paper, one of the scraps of Operation Custer, and lit it. When he was satisfied it was burning, he tossed it onto the table, which immediately went up in flames, and raced through the tent.

Everyone quickly and orderly filed out, and dispersed back to their assigned posts. No one looked back.

Patrick and Colonel Granger followed Carlson to a nearby tent, where a second radio had been set up. The Major held up his hand before they entered with him.

"Auxiliary, Colonel," he said, nodding to Patrick and Colonel Granger in turn. "I know this wasn't really the best outcome, and I will most likely never be forgiven in the eyes of God. But better seven men dead than 700, and so long as everything goes right, no one will know the truth for a long, long time."

Colonel Granger took a deep breath. "If this had been the Enclave, you would have been shot by now. But at the same time, that bastard was not fit to order a brahmin around, much less an entire battalion of troops."

The major nodded.

"So, you're the commanding officer now?" Patrick asked.

"Acting commanding officer, yeah," Major Carlson said. "I expect Winnipeg will find another Lieutenant-Colonel to take over First Battalion. I don't have the connections, the wealth, or the inclination to fight the dirty politics to get any higher than where I am."

"Well… you have me," Patrick said. "I might have a bit of pull in Winnipeg right now."

Major Carlson gave a faint smile. "I didn't do this to take over. I did it to save men's lives. If it's found out what actually happened tonight, I will walk into The Angle with my head held high, knowing I did the right thing."

Patrick somberly nodded. "My lips are sealed."

"I thank you Auxiliary for your support. You helped save many men's lives tonight." Major Carlson gave a small snort. "Hell, you even gave the late Lieutenant-Colonel what he always wanted. Too bad he's not alive to see the DBS extol his virtues."

"We'll still be able to leave tomorrow, right?" Patrick asked.

"I don't know. I may have to "shut down" the town, and see about finding whoever did this. But hopefully by tomorrow night, you should be on the train heading to Grand Forks."

Major Carlson extended his hand, and Patrick shook it. The Assiniboian officer then turned and saluted Colonel Granger, who returned it. He then entered the radio tent.

"I hope I have half the courage that man does, if something like this every happened in the Enclave," Colonel Granger whispered to Patrick as they got settled into their tent a bit later. The fire from the CO's tent had been contained, but thanks to the efforts of the officers in on the plot, order had been maintained, though the blood was boiling in some of the younger soldiers. But no one had gone out and started shooting up Bomber City. If anything, Bomber City would be wondering why the camp had a fire and explosions last night.

"You'll do the right thing," Patrick said. "It may not be the legal or official way, but it will be right." Colonel Granger was somewhat assured by that, and rolled over on his cot to sleep. Patrick, still awake and staring at the green tent above him, hoped that he was right.

PipBoy Infotracker Note #92

Thirty Years On, Dakota Still Yearns For Freedom

By Kerry O'Malley

July 7, 2206, Winnipeg Tribune Press

It's rarely talked about much outside of whispers in Bomber City and Siloville, or in the dusty halls of armories, the drunk tales of veterans, or the University of Manitoba's History department, but the Assiniboia-Dakota War still has deep scars within much of Assiniboia.

While there will be little to commemorate the event other than some news articles and maybe a protest or two in the American districts, it's still very important that us Assiniboian's actually know what happened, why, and what has come from it.

For people in the old US, Assiniboia had always been an unwelcome conqueror. The area, which had great resources and potential, saw most of their bounty being shipped north to build Winnipeg and Assiniboia, but little to help the people of Dakota itself. The lack of political representation, and the general air of superiority and smugness that Assiniboians presented to the Americans, that Assiniboia "won" the War of 2077, while the superpower that annexed Canada long ago had long since died did little to help

The three year long war that ended in 2176 was one of the bloodiest that our nation had ever faced. An exasperating and brutal guerrilla war that neither the Assiniboian Army or the RAMP at the time were prepared to fight. Until this point, all the foes that the army faced were hastily organized militias, raider gangers, or large bands of mutated wildlife. So when the Provisional Government of Dakota (PGD) rose up in Bomber City and declared their intentions, Winnipeg assumed that they were just dealing with a few disgruntled farmers, not the heavily armed and well trained force they would be dealing with.

The response by the Army was quick, mobilizing two regiments and sending them on a multi-pronged offensive to squash Dakota as quickly as they could. However, even sending almost 4000 men wasn't enough, and while Bomber City was given up by the PGD within weeks, it wasn't an end to the war. Raids and hit and run tactics were used on Assiniboian soldiers for months, inflicting casualties, destroying supplies, and keeping the soldiers tense and triggerhappy, leading to the massacre of Devil's Lake in September 2174.

Within days, all of the territories south of the old border were in open revolt, and even more Assiniboian soldiers were required to be sent down. By the middle of 2175, almost 60% of the entire strength of the army was in Dakota, trying to smother the rebellion. But the attacks by the PGD soon turned from the soldiers and Assiniboian targets to "collaborators," which began to turn many people away from the "freedom fighters" to Assiniboia.

Eventually numbers began to tell. Larger cells of rebels were destroyed and forced to retreat or surrender. By January 2176, the last survivors were at Siloville, hunkering down in the old missile silos to fight to the end. Casualties were grievous on both sides, but eventually the Assiniboian flag was once again raised over all Dakota.

So what went wrong? There are many reasons: heavy handed rule from Assiniboia sparked the conflict, and Assiniboian underestimation of the enemy at first, but then overestimation months later prolonged the war and resulted in death and destruction on a scale that few knew. But the PGD infighting and extreme posturing made reconciliation and their cause lose support very quickly. But the memories of the war, the hatred on both sides, is still there. And until we address it, politically, economically and socially, it will be waiting to flair up again.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Patrick hummed to himself as he cleaned out his assault rifle in the tent that had been assigned to him and Colonel Granger in the camp at Bomber City. He had already disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled his .44 magnum, 10mm pistol, and his laser rifle, and there were all laid out on the table in front of him. In the corner, DBS radio was on, and the news was being read out.

Patrick was only paying half attention to it, more concerned with the guns he was cleaning. Though, after a while without hearing the news, part of him did want to find out what was going on back at home.

"After a couple weeks without any word, DBS News has received information that the Auxiliary has surfaced again in the District of Devil's Lake. It was unknown for a while where he went, after contact with the Enclave aircraft he was in, along with the head of the Enclave military, lost contact with Enclave Central Control. The RAMP has yet to confirm the reports. Colonel Gabriel Granger is also reported to be with the Auxiliary."

Patrick chuckled. Ironically, the news was curious about him too.

"Speaking of the Enclave; sources within the Assiniboian government have revealed that talks between the group claiming to be the successor to the former United States of America and Assiniboia have broken down. For several weeks, the Enclave and Assiniboia have been trying to work on a treaty of friendship and cooperation, but due to some currently irreconcilable issues, the Enclave has temporarily broken off talks. Enclave and Assiniboian military, economic and diplomatic efforts that were begun over the past month to help the long sequestered Vault Dwellers adapt to living above ground will continue.

"In other news, the trial of the former Vault H Overseer is getting underway in Winnipeg. The Overseer, who lead the pre-War of 2077 underground community for over 25 years, has been charged with smuggling restricted goods, corruption, money laundering, espionage, treason, and tax evasion.

"And finally, reports of unrest and violence breaking out in Kildonan are, according to a spokesperson representing the Kildonan Civil Defense Force, 'highly overstated.' The KCDF have refused all offers of assistance by the Assiniboian military or RAMP for aid in the walled off section of northeastern Winnipeg, claiming that there is no need. This despite the increase in gunfire and explosions in the area reported over the past week.

"And that's the news for this evening. Please stay tuned and listen to Marty's Show About Nothing, followed by Winnipeg Confidential. This is DBS, broadcasting from Winnipeg."

Patrick finished assembling his newly cleaned gun, and shoved a full magazine into its breach, then packing up all his weapons into his bag.

Patrick changed his shirt, grease and dirt having spoiled the military tunic he had been given. A new set of clothes, including a button up red and black plaid shirt, blue jeans, a pair of combat boots that were slightly bigger than his feet (but as close as Patrick was going to get for now) and new socks had been procured for him from the quartermaster, with only the brahmin skin cowboy hat and his leather jacket having been salvaged from what he wore when he first arrived at Bomber City. After a month or more of wearing nothing else, it was a surprise they lasted as long as they did.

Colonel Granger pushed open the tent and looked in to see Patrick. He was in a nondescript Assiniboian Army uniform, with only a couple badges pinned to his collar to show his Enclave rank. "Ready to go?"

"Almost," Patrick said. "Have they taken my sleipnir to the train station?"

"Should already be on board," Colonel Granger said. "Already got my power armor loaded on."

Patrick nodded, and slung his backpack onto his shoulder. "Well, we should be ready to go then."

They couldn't talk to Major Carlson before they left, as he was busy with paperwork and talking to Winnipeg about the incident the night before. But an entire squad was provided to escort them to the train station.

The late afternoon was cool, with a chill that seemed to harbor some form of snow or sleet in the near future. Patrick grumbled to himself, and pulled his jacket tighter. Hopefully it was locally, and not further north or east of here.

Although the Lieutenant-Colonel who wanted to set Bomber City in flames was dead, that didn't mean that the relations between the Assiniboians and the Dakotans was any better. More likely no one in town here knew what would have happened, and the Army wasn't in the mood to reveal it to them.

Patrick and Colonel Granger had dozens of pairs of eyes on them as they were taken from the base to the train station. The soldiers were nervous, looking everywhere for anything. Someone called out "Asses go home!" but Patrick didn't turn around fast enough to see who it was. The soldiers didn't seem to care either. So long as they weren't shooting…

They turned into the market square, and to the train station. Yet another Royal Hudson, finely crafted crown on the front running plate, sat at the station. This particular model had five cars attached (three passenger and two general purpose freight cars), and was pointed east, toward Grand Forks. Black smoke poured out of the smokestack, signalling it was ready to go.

Patrick and Colonel Granger were hustled through the quiet station, and quickly loaded onto the train, one of only a few passengers on the train. Most of those in this car were Assiniboian soldiers on leave, though a couple looked like they were being transferred. Patrick could tell the subtle difference, even if the uniforms were the same. Those on leave were excited, a chance to get away from the tedious terror and boredom of military life in an occupied land. Those being transferred were resigned, weary, and more or less reluctant travelers. But at least they got a train ride out of it, so there was that.

Assiniboian Army soldiers patrolled the platform on guard duty, and warily watched the platform. A large pile of boxes, barrels, and crates piled to one side were still being loaded into the freight cars, each being opened and looked through to ensure there was nothing dangerous being smuggled on board, which gave Patrick and Colonel Granger the chance to find a seat and get comfortable.

They were lucky that the cars chosen for this train were a lot comfier than most, especially the first car where the two sat down. The seats were plush and recently upholstered with green fabric, at least in the past year or two, and were arranged so that they were mostly facing each other, with a table between them. The car even had some electric lights, though some of the light bulbs were burnt out. However the train didn't have a sleeper car, much to Patrick's disappointment. Sleeping in the somewhat preserved Vault 63, then the thin, old cot he got at the military camp, was almost a luxury and spoiled him, and he knew it. Now he wanted to at least lie down on a mattress of some kind when he went to sleep. Patrick knew that most likely he wasn't going to get such a chance for a while now.

But the seats were comfortable, and Patrick was already dozing off when a shrill, ear piercing whistle broke the quiet air. The train lurched, and with another blast of the steam whistle, the train was on its way.

A server came in and offered some Brahmin steaks cooked in Bomber City before the train left, salad, and a variety of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Patrick chose a Nuka-Cola, while Colonel Granger chose a whiskey. They made small talk as they ate and the train rumbled along, but by this point they knew everything about each other that the other was willing to reveal, and a few things that they didn't. After they were done eating, Patrick began to doze again, with the sun setting behind him and darkness filling the ever-stretching land in front of them.

Sometime during the night, a hand pushed at his shoulder. Patrick startled, reaching for his hip, and the .44 in it's holster, and aimed it at whoever interrupted him. The person who shook him lept back.

"Easy, Mr. Morrison," the conductor, in his blue suit and brass buttons said, holding up his hands to show he wasn't a threat. He was very nervous, what with a gun pointed at his face. "I don't mean any harm. Can you please put that down?"

Patrick dropped his arm. "Sorry. Reflexes being out in the Wasteland."

"I understand sir," the conductor said. "I hate to bother you, but your sleipnir has been very antsy and borderline wild. Would you mind taking a moment to go back and see if it's alright?"

Patrick yawned, and glanced out the window. It was pitch black out. How long had he been sleeping? Colonel Granger across from him was still sleeping.

"Alright. It's her first time on a train, so I bet she's not used to it," Patrick said, and pushed himself out of the seat, and the conductor guided Patrick through the rest of the train, back to the last freight car.

Hardtack was, as the conductor said, not in a good spot. She was pawing the ground, straining at the ropes that held her in her stall, and was trying to knock her way out of it. Fortunately the wooden stall was reinforced with a lot of steel, so she wasn't going to be getting loose anytime soon.

The conductor closed the door as soon as Patrick entered, and he walked over to the sleipnir. "Hey there, easy girl. Uncomfortable ride?" He carefully stroked her nose and neck, and she began to calm down as Patrick spoke.

As he was calming her down, Patrick noticed something, a strange taste and smell in the air. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was though, so he didn't think too much about it. After all, he was more concerned with a fidgety, nervous Hardtack. After a while, he was sure he had succeeded.

"You were always good with a sleipnir," a very familiar voice behind him said.

Patrick's eyes went wide. No. It couldn't be…

He turned around, and there was Harold Morrison.

"Grandpa?" Patrick asked. "You… you… are dead! How are you here?"

"Ah Patty, what are you talking about? I'm here." the old man said with a small grin. "Come on, let's get back to the house."

Harold turned around and began to walk toward the house, the Morrison house… but it was in flames. Raiders were around it, firing at it.

"Grandpa, no!" Patrick called out, and tried to reach for him, but Harold Morrison walked up to it, seemingly oblivious to the fire and guns around him. Then he vanished into thin air. The burning house seemed to come toward Patrick, the fire racing toward him. He cried out and ducked and spun around to avoid the flames.

He opened his eyes, and he was standing in a hallway in a Vault. He had no idea what Vault, but he guessed it was Vault H with the clean walls and floors, and a few posters stuck here and there. Patrick looked both ways, and there was nothing but sliding doors as far as his eye could see.

One opened up behind him. Patrick spun around to see Commander Mackenzie, the RAMP officer who made him an auxiliary, walking out, concern on his face.

"What… what is going on?" Patrick asked.

"I'm surprised that kid has done as well as he has," he said, talking to some unseen figure. "He should have been dead in a ditch near Waskada, not galavanting across the Wasteland like some knight in a book. Something is going to go wrong soon…"

"You did this to me!" Patrick cried out. "You dragged me into all this mess!"

But Commander Mackenzie didn't hear, instead vanishing like Harold Morrison had.

Another door opened and Patrick whipped around to see Derek crying over his mother, holding her in his hands.

He looked up, his eyes locking with Patrick's. "She'll be alright, right? The Great One will take care of her, right, PatrickMorrison?"

Patrick's breath was caught in his throat. He had no answer for Derek. He looked away, to see the eyes of a thousand predecessor's of Derek's tribe glared at him.

"Tainted…" a low cry rose up.

"Murderer…"

"Traitor.."

Patrick trembled, and turned around to escape that sight. The Overseer of Vault H, Sergeant Kirk Black, and the Boss from Brandon all stood in the way, towering over Patrick.

"You fucker," the Boss snarled, her teeth bared like a wild animal, bullet holes in her body still oozing blood. "Killed me in cold blood. Now is that how a hero is supposed to be?"

"You ruined us," The Overseer said. Sergeant Black nodded in agreement.

"Y-you were all trying to destroy Assiniboia!" Patrick cried out.

"And do you really care about Assiniboia?" Sergeant Black asked.

"Who gives a fuck for Assiniboia?" The Overseer said. "We were just looking out for ourselves."

"And that's all you've been doing too." The Overseer said.

"No!"

"You've been lied to. A tool for the RAMP, for everyone that you have come across," The Boss said. "Everything you've done has just gone further to making war, and nowhere closer to rescuing your brother."

Patrick stood there, breathing heavily. "N-no…"

"Oh come on. You should know this. You're smart. Going around, shooting things up, upending everything, for what?" Sergeant Black said.

"Zach! My brother!" Patrick cried out.

"And at what cost?" The Overseer asked. "At what cost will you go to find your brother?"

"Anything! Anything!" Patrick cried out.

"Then why don't you go rescue him?"

The clanking of power armor came up behind Patrick, and he spun around again. This time, an entire legion of Brotherhood soldiers in full suits of power armor came up, in perfect marching order. They stopped, stomped their left foot, and stood ramrod stiff. It was like an army of toy soldiers, perfectly laid out by a young boy, ready to take over his bedroom.

"Zach?" Patrick called out to the mass of metal clad soldiers. "Zach? Zach!"

Patrick went to the first suit of power armor and tried to rip the helmet off, but the apparition vanished. So did the second, and the third one. He bumped into a couple, who began to fall like dominos and also disappeared.

Then they all vanished.

Patrick was alone. It was pitch black, all around him.

"No… no… I can find Zach," Patrick said, tears coming to his eyes. "I… I can find him… I can save him…"

"We can save you!" A voice called. Patrick turned around to see Speaker Graham, clutching the old American flag, standing at the lead of the Enclave. Vertibirds, soldiers, robots, power armored men and women all swept forth.

"Trust in America! Trust in the Enclave!" He continued to shout, pointing forward.

There were screams in the direction Speaker Graham was pointing. Patrick turned, and gasped to see Winnipeg, the Forks, the RAMP HQ, the Legislative Building, all in flames, with Enclave soldiers killing everyone in their way. The old Red Ensign was torn down, and the Stars and Stripes went up in its place.

A young girl, splattered in blood and mud, clutching a teddy bear stood crying in the midst of all this, and pointed at Patrick.

"Auxiliary, why did you do this?" She called out, bawling her eyes out.

Patrick gasped. "N-no. I-I didn't do this…"

"America reborn!" The Speaker shouted again, making Patrick spin around again. This time Graham was a monster, with vicious teeth, snarling, blood dripping from his fangs. "Communists and traitors will face justice!"

He hunched over, and with a loud roar, he sprang upwards, his clothes tearing apart, revealing a monstrous Deathclaw. Before Patrick could even blink, it was upon him, grabbing hold of his neck and lifting him up. Patrick could only cry in choking terror as it showed off its foot-long claws on its other hand. Patrick tried to reach down, and managed to grab his revolver. He pulled it up and aimed it at the Deathclaw's head and pulled the trigger.

It screamed in pain, letting Patrick go. Patrick tumbled to the ground and rolled over, but when he looked up, there was nothing. It was all black again.

Patrick shakily got up, and set the revolver on the ground. He sat down, his head falling into his arms, and he began to cry.

He had no idea how long he had been crying in a little ball, but eventually a hand rested on his arm.

"Patrick."

Patrick looked up, to see Zach kneeling in front of him, a smile on his face. They were in their room, back in Melita, before any of this started. Patrick was sitting on his bed, sunlight streamed in through the window. It felt… so calm. So nice.

"Zach… Is that really you?"

"No, I'm not Zach, at least not here, right now. But consider me your inner self, your conscience," the apparition said, with a smile. "Patrick… don't give up. You can do it. You know you can."

"But… all those... things I did? Is it worth it?"

"Do you think it was?" Zach asked. "That's all who matters."

"I've killed people. I've destroyed lives. I've ruined so many things," Patrick said.

"But you've saved people. You've saved Derek's entire tribe. You've saved Atwood from tyranny. You've liberated Brandon from the Syndicate. You tried to help mutants that looked nothing like you. You prevented Bomber City from turning into a bloodbath. You've done good things."

"But I've done so many terrible things. Will it ever balance out?"

Zach smiled, and stood up. "Time will tell. But remember: as long as you know what you've done, and you can tell that they are good or bad, and you do more good than bad things, then it will all be right in the end." Zach began to step backwards, and into the bright sunlight.

"Zach! No! Don't leave!" Patrick shouted, trying to stand up and grab at Zach, but his footing was off. Or was it the room. The entire room began to toss and turn, Patrick couldn't find his balance, and he fell. Hard. Everything blacked out again.

The sound of gunfire and a rumbling explosion finally woke Patrick up, the smell of smoke and the crackle of flame providing a subtle undercurrent. He groaned softly, his head pounding like a team of workers building a railway, his vision blurry and unfocused. He tried to move, but his body ached and protested in agony.

Patrick finally managed to roll over, and came face to face with a sleipnir, glossy black eyes staring at Patrick, a trickle of blood dripping from its forehead right where a bullet hole had struck it.

Patrick finally managed to get himself pulled up, but his head spun like a top. He couldn't see straight or get his bearings.

It was pitch black outside, the moon hung above in the sky, unobstructed by clouds, but smoke curled upwards trying to block it out. A billion stars shimmered, but Patrick couldn't make any of them out, his vision still blurry.

"Hey, is anyone out there?" A voice called. "Is there any survivors?"

Patrick tried to turn to the voice. Two figures silhouetted against a fire were walking through the twisted wreckage of steel and wood, rummaging through the rubble.

Patrick was about to call out. They must have been help.

"Jake! Someone's here!" One of the figures called out. The other one turned around and came over to see what the first person found.

The shadow named Jake raised his gun and fired it three times. He sighed, and mumbled something.

Patrick quickly laid back down, and hoped they hadn't seen him. He quickly looked around, hoping to find something he could defend himself with. But the wreckage of the train cars, his blurry vision, and his aching body made it hard to see anything.

The footsteps came closer, their boots crunching on broken glass, kicking wood away. "Fuck, this job is the shit," the guy who didn't speak up earlier, so must have been Jake, growled.

"What do you mean?" The other asked.

"Blowing up a train, killing everyone on it, just to get one guy? Like, exactly how badass is this guy that we had to do that?" Jake asked. "This is not how the Fist of Steel operates."

Patrick's blood ran cold. The Fist of Steel was the premier unit of the Brotherhood, the strongest and the bravest of the soldiers, totally loyal to the High Elder and fanatic in their beliefs. Unlike other high ranking members of the Brotherhood, they didn't use power armor: they saw it as a weakness, a crutch to natural abilities. But they were very much like a re-creation of the knights of old, with their own Code of Honour and traditions.

So if they were after him now...

"Elder Ezekiel ordered us to do this. The Auxiliary is not to be underestimated, and he wants no survivors," the first one said. "None. Fair combat would give him the chance to win and escape. After all, he single handedly overthrew the Syndicate and uprooted a massive part of the Brotherhood's Assiniboian infiltration efforts. Not to mention that somehow managed to get through the Front Lines, and back out again."

"That can't be the same guy," Jake said. "How could one guy do all of that?" He spat at the ground.

I sometimes wonder the same thing, Patrick thought to himself, but he willed himself not to chuckle or anything. He still couldn't see a gun. But that twisted piece of metal right at his hand could work...

"If he was so great… hell, I bet he wasn't even on the train," Jake said.

"No. Intel said he was. So we keep searching until we are sure we found him."

They walked right past where Patrick lay. He didn't breath. He hoped they wouldn't have even saw him.

They continued rummaging through the wreckage of the freight car, nearly stepping on Patrick once. They talked to themselves, about the Auxiliary, about the train, about Assiniboia. Patrick dared not breathe.

One of them stopped. "I hear something, back in the cars."

"I thought we got them all," Jake said.

"I'll go check and make sure," the second person said, and marched right by Patrick again, and back into the shadows.

Patrick glanced to the first man as he walked away, and when he was sure he was out of range, he exhaled softly, then shuffled over to grab the steel bar, and heaved it up. It was heavier than he expected, but it would do.

He slowly stood up, his head spinning as he did so. But he crept up to Jake, heaving the bar up as high as he could. There was a loud crack as Patrick stepped on a large splinter of wood.

Jake stopped, stiffened and turned around, and ducked right as Patrick swung the bar down.

"Ah!" Jake shouted, dropping his rifle, but quickly standing up again to face Patrick. "Who are you?"

Patrick took a deep breath. "I'm the Auxiliary."

Jake stared at Patrick for a moment, before he snorted. "Pretty short for…"

"Yes, I get it, I'm short!" Patrick bellowed, and swung the metal bar again. But his balance wasn't great, his head was still foggy, the bar was heavy, and Jake wasn't injured at all, and he deftly leapt to the side.

Jake reached to his side, and pulled out a short sword, only a couple feet long, but with a sharp, vicious serrated edge that glimmered in the moonlight. Jake hacked at Patrick who managed to block the sword with the metal bar. Patrick tried to swing the bar at Jake, but he stepped out of the way before it could hit.

"You aren't very coordinated," Jake said, as if appraising a first time student. "Melee combat is not your prefered style of fighting."

"I like a gun," Patrick said, dodging a slash. "Makes fighting a lot easier."

"To a point," Jake said, slicing at Patrick. The tip of the blade sliced through Patrick's sleeve, making Patrick cry out in pain, dropping the bar, stumble backwards and trip on a broken box, landing on the ground hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. He tried to sit up, but he came face to face with the wicked edge of Jake's sword.

"But here's the thing, Auxiliary," Jake said, pointing his sword right at Patrick's throat.. "You have to die. It's nothing personal, but you cannot be allowed to walk away from here."

Patrick breathed heavily, his body shaking. He scrambled backwards, trying to get away from the blade, but his back hit what had been the roof of the train car. He was trapped. He looked around, hoping to find something… anything…

Then he saw the gun Jake had. It was an assault rifle, but it looked like it was in good shape. It was just a couple of feet away...

Patrick looked up, to see Jake raise the sword. Patrick took a deep breath, quickly pulling his legs toward him, and jabbing both feet right into Jake's shin.

The impact landed, and Jake cried out, loosing his balance and dropping his sword. Patrick rolled out of the way toward the gun, grabbed it, and after a brief moment to hold it properly, he turned around to aim it at Jake, who had reached over for his sword and was about to grab it when he saw Patrick holding the gun.

Jake froze in place, but the corner of Jake's mouth twitched upwards. "Very impressive," Jake said. "You would have made an excellent member of the Fist of Steel."

"Too bad I'm not interested." Patrick pulled the trigger, a burst of three bullets made Jake's head explode in a red paste. His body collapsed on the ground.

"Jake, did you…" the first man shouted, walking around the cars, when he saw Patrick with the assault rifle.

Patrick quickly spun around, and fired at the other member of the Fist of Steel. He ducked behind some wreckage, and fired his gun over the top of the railroad car in Patrick's direction.

One bullet caught Patrick's hat and blew it off his head, making him duck. A fraction of a second later another bullet caught Patrick's left arm. making him cry in agony and fall down, painfully pulling his way to cover. He didn't know how bad it was, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be able to hold up the assault rifle, as you kind of needed two hands for it.

Patrick reached to his hip for his .44, but realized it was gone. He swore at himself, and fell down, cowering as far as he could in the corner. He didn't even have a stimpak on him, all of them having been stored in his backpack that was… somewhere in the wreckage.

"Come out of there, and fight like a man!" the Brotherhood member shouted, his heavy boots stomping closer and closer to where Patrick was hiding. Patrick tried to pull the gun up, and rested it on his knees. He took a deep breath, and hoped that it would be enough to at least injure the Fist of Steel member.

There was a little metallic click, then a clatter as something hit a steel board, and thudded on the ground next to Patrick, he glanced down to see a grenade.

Without thinking, Patrick grabbed it with his good hand and tossed it back. It exploded almost immediately, a loud, deafening bang. Shrapnel crashed and clanged on his shelter. The other person screamed out in pain after the explosion, and Patrick hazarded a glance around the edge of the metal.

The shrapnel had caught the unnamed Fist of Steel on the side of his face, and blood poured out and turned his face red. He tried to shout something, but only a burbling drowning sound came out. There was another thud, and the other person was dead.

Patrick's heart was pounding, along with his head, his body, and especially his arm. He tried to push himself up, and after several tries he finally got up. His head spun and he nearly fell down again, but he managed to prop himself up against the wreckage.

After a long moment, Patrick finally began to walk back to the wreckage, to see if he could find his backpack, his revolver… anything really.

He searched the bodies of the two Fist of Steel members, and was relieved to find a Stimpak on Jake. He injected it into his arm with a small wince, but within moment painkillers and other chemicals went to work, and the pain in his arm from the bullet vanished, as well as the head ache and other stiffness. Patrick gave a sigh of relief, stretched a bit and turned around, but then nearly tripped on a massive hunk of steel. He looked down to see it was Colonel Granger's power armor.

"Shit! Where's Granger?" Patrick exclaimed. He looked back to the burning passenger cars, and scrambled to them, turning on the flashlight on his Pip-Boy to help see.

"Colonel Granger?" Patrick called out, looking through the wreckage. He got to what he was sure was the passenger car at the front of the train that he and Granger had been riding in. Fire still crackled, along with creaking and groaning of weakened wood and steel that was just barely holding the car together. Patrick walked past several bodies, all with bullet holes from the Fist of Steel soldiers that he had killed earlier. Most of them were soldiers that would never have known what hit them, or would have been killed almost instantly. He got to the seat that he and Colonel Granger had been sitting in, but the Colonel wasn't there. Patrick searched around, but didn't see Colonel Granger anywhere nearby.

"Granger!" Patrick shouted at the top of his lungs, and he scrambled around the car, trying to find the commander of the Enclave's army. "Colonel Granger!"

There was a weak cough. Patrick stopped, and looked to where it came from. "Granger?"

Another cough. Patrick got closer.

"Are you here?"

"Patrick…" a quiet voice called out. Patrick turned around, away from the train crash and to the wasteland on either side of the train tracks. His flashlight illuminated a blob on the prairie.

"Colonel Granger!" Patrick called out, and raced to him. He knelt down beside Colonel Granger, who was bloody and dusty and in generally rough shape. "What are you doing out here?"

"I… I don't know. I woke up... when the train crashed... Got out of the wreckage. But then... I heard gunshots... so I tried to get away," Granger said, his voice weak and tired. "One leg is broken... I'm sure. I think I have... a concussion as well."

Patrick stood up. "One moment, I'll go find a stimpak."

Colonel Granger didn't say anything, but Patrick ran off back to the wreckage. He searched near his seat again, and under a few broken timbers and wrecked seat cushions, he found his backpack. He carefully pulled it up, but was glad to see it survived mostly intact. Patrick dug inside for a stimpak, and once he found it, slung it on his shoulder, and hurried back to Colonel Granger.

He came up to the Colonel. "What leg's broken?"

"Left… no, right one," He gasped out, moving each leg in turn to see.

"Stop that. Just hold still," Patrick said, as he jabbed the needle in the right leg. Colonel Granger hissed in pain, followed a moment later by a sigh of relief. Patrick then tried to tie a splint onto Colonel Granger's leg.

"No, get me to my power armor. That will help me."

"You sure? I don't know what kind of shape it's in," Patrick said.

"A plasma grenade thrown at it in testing barely caused a scratch. We dropped it from the top of the hanger, and was intact. It should be fine," Colonel Granger said.

Getting him to the power armor was easier said than done. It took a long time to get Colonel Granger standing, and then even longer to limp over to the power armor. It was laying on the ground, but Colonel Granger didn't worry. He looked at his own Pip-Boy, and pushed a couple buttons. Instantly the Power armor stiffened up, and began to move on it's own until it was standing upright.

"You are full of surprises," Patrick said, half carrying, half supporting Granger.

"We've thought of everything for the power armor," the Colonel said.

Getting the Colonel into the power armor was also a challenge, with the broken leg and all. But soon enough the Enclave officer was safely enclosed into the metal contraption.

"So, now that we got that… where to?"

Patrick shrugged. "My guess is that Grand Forks shouldn't be too far away. We just head east, we should run into it." Patrick looked at his map, but the dot that normally would say where he was wasn't available. But he saw Grand Forks on the map, so he was sure he was almost straight west of it. Either way, there was a train track that would take them there.

Colonel Granger shrugged. "It's as good a guess as mine. Let's go."

Before they left, Patrick wanted to find his .44 Magnum. It took a bit of searching, but in the ruins of the freight car, near Hard Tack's body, was the .44. It only had five bullets in the chamber.

As they walked in the darkness, following the silver ribbon of steel, Patrick began to tell Granger of what happened when he was in the freight car, from meeting his dead grandfather to Speaker Graham turning into a deathclaw.

"Hmmm, that sounds like hallucinogen," Colonel Granger said.

"Halluc-e-what-now?"

"Chemicals that alter your brain's perception of what is actually going on around you. The Enclave had experimented with it at one time, but it lead to a leak that resulted in several people tearing each other apart. Needless to say, we canceled the project soon after."

"So… what was it doing on the train? Did it leak or something? And who wanted it?"

"That is a lot of questions that I can't answer, and would take a lot of investigation for another time," Colonel Granger said. "I think we have some more pressing issues right now, like being stuck in the middle of the Dakota Wasteland."

But as they continued to tramp along the train tracks, and the dried out, crunchy, short brown grasses, something also came to Patrick's mind. It sounded like the Fist of Steel was going after him, and him alone. Everyone on the train died because of him. And he, somehow, survived.

Was he seriously so big a threat to the entire Brotherhood of Steel that he would be targeted by their highest leader, who would send a couple of their best trained, most battle-hardened, most loyal troops to kill him in particular.

Where the images he saw when he was drugged up true? Was he really a monster that was destroying not just evil organizations like the Syndicate and the Brotherhood of Steel, but also his country, and everything he knew?

No matter how hard he thought, he couldn't figure out an answer.

PipBoy InfoTracker Note #184

Fist of Steel Oath

I swear this sacred oath

That to all orders of the Brotherhood of Steel, and our Elder Ezekiel,

Supreme Commander, Justicar, and Avenger of Destruction and Chaos,

I shall render unconditional obedience, and use my strength only to aid the Brotherhood,

In their goals of saving the people of the wasteland from themselves,

And as a brave soldier, I shall at all times be prepared to give my life for this oath.

Semper Invicta!


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It turned out that they weren't even that far from Grand Forks, just six or so hours of walking away, past another old Air Force base. It looked like somebody was there, as they were some campfires and electric lights on. But neither had the inclination to explore it, so they just walked past. Had the train still been functional, they would have been in Grand Forks in less than an hour. When they stumbled into town just as the sun was rising, they were met by a rather motley armed band.

"State your business," one of them with a large mustache and a scar over his right cheek said to Patrick and Colonel Granger, his gun held ready, but pointed at the ground. He eyed the power armor warily, but didn't say anything about it.

"Our train got destroyed, and we were the only survivors," Patrick said. He surprised himself about how blasie he sounded about it all, like if it was another day for him. Considering the past month or so, it was almost an everyday thing to be shot at.

"Huh, figured that's why the train from Bomber City was late," the man said. "Would normally have been here hours ago." He shouldered his gun. "Come with me, we'll talk to the UAR guy here."

The man with the mustache and scar also walked with a slight limp. But the few people that were up in the morning nodded to him, a few called out to him by name. That's how Patrick found out the man was named Ian.

"So what do you do here?" Patrick asked.

"Oh, not a whole lot," Ian said as they ambled along the main thoroughfare. "I just make sure that the town isn't wiped out by raiders or bandits or some massive mutant monstrosity."

"So, you in charge of defending Grand Forks?"

"Evening shift, but yeah," Ian said, spitting on the dusty road.

"Why doesn't Assiniboia do anything?" Colonel Granger asked.

Ian looked over his shoulder. "You're not from around these parts, are you? Are you one of those Enclave blokes?"

"I am, yes. But that still doesn't answer my question." Colonel Granger said.

"Because Grand Forks, and the military base to the west, is independent. We are our own nation, and we like it just fine that way."

"So, you are one of those, whatchamacallit, city states then?" Colonel Granger asked.

"Sure, if you want to get fancy." Ian spat again. "Man, I could use a drink."

"But aren't you worried about the Brotherhood swooping in?" Patrick asked.

"Nah, not really," Ian replied. "We try to get along with everyone here. Assiniboia can run its trains and boats through - for a price, of course. The Brotherhood can come trade with us and stuff. Hell, if the bandits promise to be peaceful like, we'll let them come in, spend their bottle caps or can tabs or whatever else they use for money."

"That's… odd," Patrick said.

Ian shrugged again. "It is what it is. Grand Forks prides itself on being neutral, but that doesn't mean we can't make a buck off of them. Nothing more than personal weapons can be kept on your person, like that fancy looking revolver you got there," he said, pointing to Patrick's hip.

Colonel Granger raised an eyebrow. "And how did you manage to not get annexed by Assiniboia, or taken over the BoS?"

"We were part of Assiniboia for… I dunno, a long time. But way back when I was still a young boy before I ever went out guarding caravans, Grand Forks was able to peacefully separate from Assiniboia. Makes you wonder exactly how much gold and blowjobs they had to give to get that, huh?" Ian chortled at his joke. Patrick and Colonel Granger just looked at each other, but shrugged.

A woman stumbled by, in filthy rags that covered up some parts of her, but left her left breast hanging out. Bloodshot eyes looked at Patrick, but didn't make eye contact, or really even stare. It was like she was blind, but still able to see perfectly well. "Atom will give us peace!" she half shouted, half spoke to the three men. "Let your body divide!"

"Ignore her," Ian said, glaring at the woman. "She's a junkie and a drunk who heard some guy from out east talk of worshiping nukes, and now won't shut up about it."

Patrick watched as she carried on. The couple other people who were on the street did their best to avoid her. One better dressed women shouted some obscenities at her, but the would-be preacher ignored the heckling, still mumbling and shouting about Atom.

They finally arrived at the train station. It was the original two story building from the 1800s, made with stone walls, a clock tower - with the time stuck at 9:47, when the bombs fell on 2077- and a overhang that would have sheltered the passengers before they would have boarded the train, no matter the weather. Not unlike Bomber City, the train station was next to a large market square, with some shacks and stands propped up all around. Even this early in the morning, some people were already gathering around, with some showing produce, meat, weapons, junk, or whatever else they thought they could sell.

Ian took them into the train station, where a man in a suit was yelling into a radio in an office that, though the door was closed, could still be heard as soon as they walked in. "I tell you I have no idea what happened to the Bomber City train, and if I did, I would have told you already!"

Patrick noticed that he had what was called an "English" accent, like what the people in England would have spoke with before the War of 2077. That could only have placed him from one town in all of Assiniboia, Englishfordshire.

There was a mumbled response that Patrick didn't hear.

"I'm not shouting!" There was a brief pause. "Alright, maybe I am. I'm shouting! I'm shouting! I'm shouting!"

The man slammed the radio down, then burst out of his office to come face to face with Ian. He was a tall, round man, with a large grey beard and mustache, and heavily lidded eyes that pierced right through Patrick and everyone he stared at. "Who the bloody hell are these people?"

"Sir, they are the only survivors of the train from Bomber City. It was blown up by the Brotherhood of Steel, or so they say."

The UAR Agent looked them over. "By happenstance, one of you wouldn't happen to know what happened to the Auxiliary, would you?"

"That would be me," Patrick said. "I'm the Auxiliary."

The man's eyes grew wide to the size of dinner plates, something that Patrick wasn't sure any normal human could do. "Well… uh… this is an honour, sir!" he said, taking and shaking Patrick's hand, pumping it up and down very exuberantly. "I'm sorry to hear what happened to you on the trip, but I hope you are otherwise okay."

"I guess," Patrick answered, then yawned. "But I think I'd like to have a sleep by now."

"Of course, of course! I can get you a room at a hotel as soon as I can." The agent nearly sprinted away (which was a surprise to Patrick, considering the man's stature and size), but within ten minutes he was back, though panting slightly.

"The hotel next door has a room available for you, and another for your companion here," he said, motioning to Colonel Granger. "The manager there will set you up."

"That was… quick," Ian said.

"That's great," Patrick said, turning to the English accented UAR agent. He bowed and quickly left back to his office. Patrick and Colonel Granger left the station with Ian guiding them.

"And maybe take a day or two to relax and get a bearing on everything. I need to get in contact with the Enclave," Colonel Granger said. "And I bet the RAMP are wanting to hear from you as well."

"Is there a long distance radio to contact Winnipeg?" Patrick asked Ian.

"Just the one in the train station," Ian replied. "But something feels… off."

"What do you mean?"

"He has never been that lively before. The last time I saw him so excited about something, someone said they were from… Transvestite? Transylvania? I dunno. Nowhere around here. Maybe Ohio." Ian shrugged.

Ian led them into the hotel that was indeed next door and to the front desk, where a middle aged woman in a black dress took over from Ian, who left soon after. Patrick and Colonel Granger were taken to different rooms across the hall from each other.

The room was fairly comfortable, if a bit sparse. A bed with sheets that looked like it had been washed in the past month, a table and a couple chairs, a full bathroom attached on.

But Patrick barely noticed. He only got his boots off before he lay down on the bed and almost immediately blacked out.

"You are listening to Grand Forks Independent Radio. I'm Liz, and I have some news for you."

Patrick sighed as he listened to the radio. Whoever was running this station, Liz or whoever, was clearly not as talented, or had the resources, that DBS had. Liz honestly didn't sound much older than 16, and it showed, sometimes painfully cringeworthy to. But the DBS wasn't coming in at the moment, so he had to make do with the smaller station for now.

"So, as you may have heard already, but Assiniboia has just announced that they would be providing a… uh… 'massive package' to Brandon," she said, and there was some snickering in the background. Patrick rolled his eyes. "Food, water, medicine, and whole bunch of soldiers to protect the town. So maybe those Ass...iniboians are actually trying to do some good to people!"

Patrick had no idea if he wanted to cheer or sigh in disappointment. Yes, Brandon needed the help, big time. He was there, he saw the poverty and misery there. But the government was undoubtedly paying small fortunes to the the CPR, Rediboine Caravan Company and whoever else would move the humanitarian supplies to Brandon. That meant any extra trade that would normally have went elsewhere in Assiniboia or outside of it was being redirected to cash in on those lucrative contracts. Which in turn would raise the prices on pretty much everything else in the Dominion. Most of the river boats that would normally travel up and down the Red River had also decided to take the more lucrative Assiniboine River route to Brandon to ship supplies to the city, meaning he now had to wait for the train.

And that was going to be two days, at the very least. The locomotive that was destroyed had been only one of three that made the long trip from Winnipeg to North Dakota. And since all the other trains that the CPR maintained would now be directed to Brandon, there wasn't going to be a replacement for the regular three train run in North Dakota.

There was a knock at Patrick's door, making him turn around. "Who is it?"

"RadioTelegram for the Auxiliary!" a young, very chipper voice said.

Patrick blinked. Who the hell would be trying to send one of those to him? He opened the door, took the message from a boy not much older than 12 with a smart blue jacket and brass buttons (overtop a greasy white shirt and ratted black pants). Patrick started to reach for his wallet to give the boy something for his trouble, as was just polite to do.

"That's not necessary. Dominion business," the young boy said, shaking his head. "We cannot accept tips for these." He fidgeted a little. "And I was told to take your reply of the message back with me."

That startled Patrick. He knew that usually when the Dominion sent a message on the RadioTelegram, RadGram, whatever everyone called it, it was bound to be bad news. It was the way that the military let next-of-kin know that a soldier had died, or the justice system to notify the defendant of a lawsuit. So no matter what was in this message, it wasn't going to be good.

Patrick opened up the message on the flimsy yellow paper, with VANDERBOK RADIOTELEGRAM, and began to read it. The first few letters and numbers were a jumble, a call sign of where it started and where it was supposed to end up. The actual message, typed out on a long strip of paper by the teleprinter, cut and pasted onto the radiotelegram was below that.

TO: RAMP AUXILIARY

MESSAGE: THIS IS A SUMMONS BY THE PARLIAMENT OF THE DOMINION OF ASSINIBOIA TO TESTIFY TO THE HOUSE OF COMMONS COMMITTEE OF DEFENSE AT THE EARLIEST POSSIBLE DATE. THIS IS A LEGAL SUMMONS. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN SUBPOENA AND POSSIBLE PUNITIVE ACTIONS. PLEASE REPLY ASAP.

Patrick looked at the paper, then to the kid. "Are you sure this isn't a joke?"

The boy shrugged. "I dunno, I just bring the messages to people."

Patrick swore under his breath. "Well, I guess say I'm coming as soon as I can, as soon as I can get out of Grand Forks."

The boy nodded. "Sounds good! Thank you, Mr. Auxiliary." The young boy then sprinted down the hall. Patrick slammed the door behind him, a bit harder than he planned on doing.

Why the hell did the government, no Parliament, want to talk to him? What the hell did he do wrong? Or right? Or whatever the hell has been happening?

He wished he knew more, but until he got to Winnipeg to find out what was happening. But because there weren't any trains going between Grand Forks and Winnipeg...

So until the regularly scheduled train showed up, Patrick was stuck in Grand Forks.

Something deep down told him that it was going to get worse. But Patrick just couldn't think how much worse it can get.

With a couple days to burn, Patrick ended up doing a lot of touristy things in the town. The old Downtown, where the train station was located, was full of old buildings, most of which were still being used. A monument in the middle of one of the streets showed the high point of a flood of the Red River (1950? 1997? 2043? 2169? Could have been any of them), which was over twice as tall as Patrick was. Being used to floods where he lived, as the Souris had a very annoying tendency to suddenly wash out hundreds of acres of land with very little warning, this marker still impressed Patrick.

The market was also very busy, with all sorts of people milling around, bartering, arguing, talking and relaxing. With a sandwich and a bottle of Nuka Cola, Patrick joined the later group, sitting on a bench and watching everything go around him.

Grand Forks was a decent place to live, compared to many other places in Assiniboia and the wasteland in general. It had a functioning water treatment plant on the Red River, large amounts of land that hadn't been rendered infertile by the War of 2077, and enough people willing to defend the town with weapons they accumulated over the years, as well as the coin to hire mercenaries when locals wouldn't quite cover it. With the essentials covered, everything else was a bonus, including having a military base that even after 140 years hadn't been fully scavenged. Half the town had been built from materials gathered at the base, while ghouls had found the slight background radiation a comfortable place to live. Tensions between the humans and the ghouls was civil, if not all sunshine and roses.

Finding themselves between two hostile powers that weren't yet at war, but could be at any moment, also had its perks. While trade between the two nations directly was forbidden, taking goods from the south, selling them to a middleman in Grand Forks, then selling them again to head north meant that it was a wealthy and prosperous town, one that could afford to hire mercenaries and maintain its water treatment plant.

The downside, as there always was one, was that it was too valuable, to strategically important to let either Assiniboia or the Brotherhood to control it. If one tried to make moves to capture it, then the other would attack. That in itself was a form of protection, but for only so long, until one side grew too powerful.

"Power," Patrick muttered to himself as finished his sandwich. He knew that Grand Forks didn't have a chance to stand up to any attack from Assiniboia or the Brotherhood. The town didn't even have walls around it. The desire for more power, whether it be land, prestige, guns, or money, everyone wanted it. Nation's like Assiniboia and the Brotherhood were no different.

Speaking of the power, his thoughts kept going back to the summons he got to go to Winnipeg. Parliament had a lot of different committees dealing with different aspects, most of them to keep the Prime Minister, his cabinet and the civil service accountable. Well, that's what they said they did. But because it was different MPs who sat on those committees, it would be politics. Supporting the PM if his party had a majority control of Parliament, attacking him if it was a minority.

Patrick really didn't want to get dragged into politics. But he had no choice now.

Patrick continued to sit on his bench, drinking his Nuka Cola, and letting everything around him go on. He wasn't being shot at, he wasn't tramping around the Wasteland, he sure as hell wasn't fighting monsters. It was actually nice, and peaceful, to rest here for a bit.

The quiet mumble of the crowd briefly muffled the sound of engines in the distance, but in a few moments it became too loud to ignore. Patrick looked up to where the sound was coming from, the north-west. He narrowed his eyes, and realized it was a Vertibird, coming in close to the town. Lots of people nearby looked up and pointed it out. Everyone here seemed amazed by it. And frankly, Patrick couldn't blame them.. He just realized that he hadn't seen one of those in weeks. And since that one had crashed, he really had no intention on ever getting on one ever again.

As far as he knew, only the Enclave had a Vertibirds, so that must meant the Enclave is doing something. And Patrick had a good feeling it was going to involve Colonel Granger. He drank the rest of his Nuka Cola, pushed himself off the bench, and walked toward where the Vertibird had set down.

It was to the north of the town, so it took a bit of time before he got out there. When he did, there was a small group of people, all of whom were being held back by power armoured soldiers with miniguns at the ready. Everyone nearby was very cautious around those guns, and the people with the insect like helmets holding them.

Patrick managed to push his way to the front of the crowd near one of the soldiers. He looked to the Vertibird, where he saw a couple uniformed Enclave soldiers talking. The vertibird propellers were still spinning, flinging dust and sand everywhere. Patrick had to hold his hat down to make sure it didn't blow away.

"Excuse me," Patrick shouted at one of the soldiers. "Can I ask why you are here?"

"This is none of your concern Wastelander," the soldier said, his voice muffled by the metal helmet and the propeller blades.

"Is this about Colonel Granger?" Patrick asked.

"Yes… wait, how did you know? This is classified!"

"Because I've been traveling with the Colonel for a long time now," Patrick said. "And I know where he is if you need him."

"That won't be necessary Patrick," Colonel Granger shouted to Patrick behind him. Patrick spun around to see his companion.

"What's going on?" Patrick asked.

"I've been ordered to return to the Enclave as soon as possible," Colonel Granger said. "Something… I don't even know what yet, but something is happening. I have a theory about what it is though."

"Well I'll come with you then," Patrick said.

The soldier who Patrick had talked too shook his head. "I'm sorry Wastelander, but my orders were to only recall Colonel Granger to the Enclave. Speaker Graham was explicit in that order."

The Colonel shook his head. "Sorry Patrick, but orders are orders. Though, I'll be honest, I bet you'd be a big help to me right now."

Patrick sighed. "So, I guess this is where we part ways then?"

Colonel Granger nodded solemnly. "Unfortunately, yes. Maybe when this is all over, we can have a beer together or something." Granger allowed a small smile to cross his lips. "I know we didn't always get along or agree on everything, but, I have to say Patrick, you have done a lot to open my eyes to what is out here. When I stepped out of that Vault, I knew nothing of what was happening here in Assiniboia, North Dakota, or anywhere else, and even after all this time, I still don't know all of it. But you helped me a lot to understand what is actually going on here. And maybe I, and the Enclave, can use it to the best of our abilities." Colonel Granger stuck out his arm.

Patrick nodded, and took his hand. "I'm sorry about not fully trusting you earlier. You're just doing your job."

"That's very kind of you to say," Granger said, then looked over to the Vertibird. The officers were motioning to him to get on board. Colonel Granger nodded, and then fastened his helmet onto his head. "But good luck to you Auxiliary, and hopefully you can save your brother yet."

Colonel Granger, flanked by the two minigun wielding men, marched up to the Vertibird. They all climbed up in, and the doors on the side were closed. The motors began to rev higher, and the big machine heaved itself off the ground, and into the air, before turning back to the north-west, and flying off.

The crowd began to disperse, and Patrick was left standing alone in the middle of the dried, dusty field. And he still had a day before the train would come. And the only person he knew, and could somewhat trust and rely on, both in battle and outside of it for three hundred miles, was gone.

Patrick sighed, and walked back to Grand Forks. He needed a drink. Not like he had anything else to do.

The bar in the hotel wasn't anything special. They had beer, vodka, whisky, and wine, which was about as much as you could ask for in the Post-Apocalypse, along with Nuka-Cola and fresh, clean water run through several filters and worth the ten pound price tag, or so the bartender claimed. There was food as well, mostly some variation of Brahmin meat, some vegetables and fruit that was from Winnipeg that would have to be eaten in the next three or four days or else they would rot.

But the beer was what Patrick was more inclined to take. He didn't even want to get drunk, or at least not too quickly. He still had three empty bottles in front of him, but he wasn't going to get drunk that easily.

Patrick silently cursed himself. Why was he so bummed out that Colonel Granger left? Patrick wasn't even sure if he could have called him a friend, what with the whole secrecy and lies. But he at least was open minded, curious, and willing to stand up for Patrick, so Patrick of course did his best to do the same. Was that friendship? Or is that just being a good person in general?

But in the rough and tumble world of Assiniboia and the Dakotan Wasteland, did you really want a friend to travel with you? Theoretically, yes you would. Someone you knew really well, enough to trust your life to, someone that would do anything to help you, always have your back. Preferably someone with a big gun. And Granger easily provided that. But what if something happened to them? They were injured, and you couldn't help them, and had to leave them, or worse yet burry them far from home? If they backstabbed you, left you to die in the middle of nowhere because you showed weakness? Then what? You were left to die, with no resources, no weapons… and no friends.

No. Sometimes, the best people to travel with are the ones who are simply going in the same direction, or who were only doing it for the money, or just because it, well, worked. Sometimes business, or at least coincidence, was better than friendship.

Then why the hell was he so miserable about Colonel Granger having to leave?

Patrick took another drink. He really didn't want to think about stuff like that… but here he was, doing it anyway.

"Hey there partner, you look like you need some company. Mind if I join?" a man standing next to the table said, a bottle of whisky in his hand. Patrick just realized he didn't even see the man show up until right now. How long had he been standing there?

Patrick shrugged, and waved the man to sit in the chair next to him, which the man did. He was older, with a mixture of grey and light brown hair, a bushy beard, and a leather coat that reached down to his knees, with only a couple patches that were, at least, close to the original colour of the coat so didn't stand out so much. But what really caught Patrick's attention was the eyepatch that covered his left eye, and several scars on his face. Despite the gruff and battle-hardened appearance, he had a gentle smile and his good blue eye sparkled.

"Name's Oliver. Vince Oliver," the man said, offering his hand after he was seated, which Patrick took. His hand was strong, calloused and rough, but he didn't crush Patrick's hand.

"Patrick Morrison." A very brief hesitation. "Though, most people around here know me as the Auxiliary."

Vince looked over Patrick again. "At first glance, I'd say you'd be lyin'. Too young, mostly, though you are also a bit scrawny. But you've seen a lot, done a lot, haven't you? You have that look to ya."

Patrick nodded. "How did you know?"

"Your eyes. Having lost one myself, I know how important eyes are, both to see, yes, but also in showing what other people are like." He looked at Patrick's eyes again. "You've killed, seen people being killed, have had your brushes with death. You regret it though, wonder if it makes you a good person. But there is something else. You lost someone. You are trying to find them. Behind all the pain and regret, there is a fire."

Patrick was taken aback. How did this guy just suddenly know his entire life story, just by looking at his eyes?

Well, no harm in explaining the rest now.

"My brother. He was taken by the Brotherhood of Steel, and being trained as a fighter. I found him once, but I couldn't save him." Patrick looked at the beer bottle. It was empty now, so he waved to the bartender for another one. "I'm certain it's going to be impossible to save him now."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Vince said. "But you clearly are someone that takes 'impossible' as a challenge, not a final command. If what the radio said about the Auxiliary is true, you won't let anything like a deathclaw or a super mutant stand in your way."

"How do you know about deathclaw's and super mutants? I've only ever seen one Deathclaw in North Dakota, and a small town of super mutants."

"So, you've been to Bismarck, eh?" Patrick nodded. "Freindly chaps there. At least friendly than I knew back over the Rockies.

"Well, I've been all over North America," Vince said. "From running caravans in the fledgling New California Republic all the way in the west to helping fix an ancient aircraft carrier in the Capital Wasteland in the east. I've seen mile wide Dustnado's of Texas, the vicious radgators in the swamps of Florida, the reborn Aztecia of Mexico. Ronto, Point Lookout, Hoover Dam, Yosemite, Denver, Empire City… I've seen it all. I've met so many people, interacted with so many others. Shot my own share of raiders and bandits who thought I was an old man, an easy target." He took a swig of his bottle, followed by a long, persistent cough. "They'll never make that mistake again."

"That's quite impressive," Patrick said. "I've only heard stories of those places."

"Well, most of the would be true, if you'd care to share them."

"Then why did you decide to pick me out of this bar?"

Vince gave a friendly smile. "Some of my best adventures started with chatting with a guy at a bar."

"How long have you been doing this? And why did you start?"

Vince took another drink from his whisky. "Oh, I guess about 45 or 50 years now I've been wandering around, ever since I was old enough to shoot a gun and barter a merchant. But why, well that I remember. When I was young, I got a chance to talk to the Vault Dweller out in California, before Shady Sands became the center of a new nation."

"Who's the Vault Dweller? There are a lot of Vault Dwellers out there," Patrick asked.

"Oh, right, you'd have never heard of him," Vince said. "This was a special guy though. The Vault Dweller was a big hero from Vault 13, way out west, who helped save the world from a monster, the guy that made all the super mutants you see. He was then kicked out of his home, and forced to move away. Hearing his stories was most likely the reason why I'm out here right now. But there are others I've met and traveled with as well. John, Marcus, Ian, Olivia, Maria, Harold. I could go on all day and talk about them all, but I'd just be talking your ears off by then, and you'd want to put a bullet in my head to make me shut up!" Vince began to laugh, which made Patrick start to chuckle as well.

"Then what are you doing here in Grand Forks?"

"On my way north to the Glacier. Of all the places I've been, I still haven't been as far north as the Glacier. I met an Ice Ghoul in Ronto who told me a story about a secret research base under the ice, one that was rumored to have treasure inside of it. But no one who has gone into it has ever come back again." Vince grinned. "I want to be the first."

"So you're a treasure hunter then?"

"Heck no. If I was, I would have retired years ago. Hell, I did, for a few months at least, I think in… 2189 or something. Used to be a mercenary, a hired gun really." Vince took a swig from his whisky. "But I'm an adventurer, an explorer, a storyteller and collector. I want to see the world, and the only way to do that is to go and see it, grab it with both hands, and hold on until I've had enough." Vince was smiling now, remembering all his adventures.

"Well, I know you have plans to go to Glacier, but would you want to go with me for a bit?" Patrick asked. "If anything that I've done before this point is any sign, I'm sure I can give you a few more interesting interesting stories."

"Oh, I don't have plans. Just general directions to go. I hear about something, and I just go that way. If something comes up that catches my attention, well I'll do that." He polished off his bottle of whisky. "But sure, why not? Even before I got through the BoS lines - which is a story I'm sure you'd like - I've been hearing about the Auxiliary and his stunts and deeds, and even more so since I got to Fargo and now here. I bet you have a few stories to tell me as well."

Patrick's smile went up. "Oh, I may have a few. Have you ever heard of Camp Shilo?"

Despite spending the entire night drinking and telling stories, Patrick and Vince were both at the train station bright and early the next morning, to watch as the old steam powered Royal Hudson puff into the station, and sigh with a cloud of steam as it was able to rest at the platform.

"I've followed thousands of miles of railroad tracks, but only Assiniboia seems to have actually put them to use," Vince said, admiring the steam train.

Patrick nodded, though he hadn't told Vince about the train crash that brought him to Grand Forks in the first place. Considering that he did have to get on the train soon, he didn't want to think too much about all the bad things that could happen.

The conductor in his blue uniform climbed down from the last passenger car as the last people that were on the train had gathered their bags and luggage and were walking off the platform. Patrick walked over to the conductor to ask when they were leaving, but much to Patrick's surprise was a middle aged woman with short hair.

"Yes, can I help you?" she asked.

"I was just wondering when the train is leaving."

"For Winnipeg?" she asked. Patrick nodded. "It will be a couple of hours. Need to get the engine turned around and everything. Just hold tight!" She gave a polite nod and walked into the train station.

Patrick sighed. Nothing was ever quick, was it? He went to go sit on a bench with Vince while they waited.

"Ah, don't worry about it," Vince said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the bench. "We got all the time in the world."

So they sat at the train station, the big old stone building, and just… sat there. They had run out of things they wanted to talk about, they were both tired from talking all night, but Patrick was getting very impatient.

Out of the corner of Patrick's eye, he saw a young girl at the far corner of the platform, most likely not much more than ten years old, sitting in a patched sundress but with a large red headband with a chin strap. All around her was junk: Nuka Cola bottles, old clothes, tin cans, and an old, beat up sleeping bag. She was simply sitting there, eyes blind to the world, staring out into nothing that she could see. Her fingers were also tapping on an old tin lunch kit on her lap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

Patrick got up and walked over to the girl and knelt down in front of her. Her head didn't turn, but Patrick could tell her attention was now on him.

"I hearsee you stranger," she said in a very quiet voice.

"Hearsee?" Patrick asked.

"I can't see with eye, but I can see with my ears. Hearsee!" she exclaimed. Taptaptaptaptap.

"Okay, but what are you doing here? You seem to be a bit young."

"Family is gone to another place," she said, but without any sadness in her voice. That almost tore Patrick's heart out. "Gone, gone, gone. But I can still hearsee them, when I don't have my hat on." Tap tap tap.

"Your hat?" Patrick asked.

She touched the red band on her head. "My hat won't let me hearsee everywhere and anywhere at once. Things that happened, things that will happen. But it hurts my head when I don't have it on."

"It's a psychic nullifier," Vince said, startling Patrick. The old man was standing behind him. "I've seen a lot of those, especially out west."

"What does it do then?"

"Well, it's supposed to prevent people which certain abilities - psykers, they call them - to go totally crazy from hearing the voices in their head. It take a lot of training to do it without one, and it's more likely someone would go insane than control it."

"Are you… a psychic then?" Patrick asked the girl. "You can see the future?"

"Some people say that, but laugh when they do. It must be a joke, but I don't get it."

"It's not a joke. It's true," Vince said. "There are people that can see the future. I've met several people, and they also gave me advice that helped me."

Patrick frowned. "Well, would you be willing to… hearsee for me? Please?"

She gave a small smile. "There are few that ask nicely for it. For you, I will."

Her small delicate hands unfastened the chin strap and she carefully took the band off. Patrick could see her wince, a startled whimper coming from her lips, but she still took it off.

"Take my hand," she said quickly. Patrick did so.

Her little body shook and it was clear that she was in pain. But she didn't put the headband back on.. "Known by two names, one that scares and intimidates, but means spare… one that is used in emergencies and crisis when no one else can help. The man with two names is in the middle between three: an old red flag with a one headed brahmin, a mighty sword with wings, and a bird, with many stars, blue, white and red. The brahmin flag is scared for it's life, the sword is angry, the bird tearing itself apart. The man with two names is looking, looking, looking for the right answer. The right answer is wrong, the wrong answer is right. Worry won't help. Choose quick when the time comes. Only two can be saved."

The girl slumped against the wall, panting heavily, moaning in pain. Patrick quickly let go, and with Vince's help got the psychic nullifier back onto the girl's head. She blinked her unseeing eyes, and looked up. "It doesn't hurt now. Thank you. I hoped the hearsee will help you. But I need to rest now."

The little girl laid down into the sleeping bag and promptly fell asleep, leaving Patrick and Vince to look at each other.

"What does that mean?" Patrick asked standing up.

"Anything you want it to mean, really," Vince said. "But it's always the little kid that will give you the best insight into the future. They say it as it is, even if you can't figure it out right now."

"But… 'the right answer is wrong, and the wrong answer is right? Only two can be saved?' What does that mean?" Patrick asked.

"Don't overthink it. That's the problem with being told the future: you try to figure out what she means to the detriment of what is going on around you, it will become even worse that you want."

There was a woosh of steam, followed by a low rumble as the fireman and engineer began to get steam up in the engine, and the shrill blast of the whistle. Several more people were filling out into the platform.

"Either way, it's time to go now," Vince said.

Patrick looked down at the little girl. He wanted to know more.

But now he was going to have to find out the hard way.

PipBoy InfoTracker Note #918

Grand Forks Declaration of Independence

Ratified: July 4, 2153

We the People of the City of Grand Forks have decided that we really don't want to be in the Dominion of Assiniboia anymore. We are mildly annoyed at the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police showing up and bossing us around (even if most of their rules are fair and balanced) and also peeved that we have to pay money to Assiniboia (though the Assiniboian Army does protect us and the railway they repaired brings a lot of business here). So, from now on we just want to be left alone in peace, do what we want, and not have to do what anyone outside of Grand Forks tells us to do.

We don't hate you Assiniboia: we just want to go our own way. We can still be friends, and you can still protect us and run your trains, but just please don't tell us what to do.

Thanks.

The People of the City of Grand Forks.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

The two day trip to Winnipeg was very uneventful, minus whatever funny or interesting story Vince told. With the alcohol on offer on the train, he may have gotten a bit of a buzz. Hell, maybe more than that, but he was still mostly functional, and able to think mostly straight. And it gave him something to do. Besides, it wasn't like he was a full time drunk.

The train ride was just like every other train ride he had: the carriages rocked, the benches were okay but not anything anyone would call comfortable, the food was mostly edible, the staff was mostly polite, and the ride was only somewhat delayed.

Going up by train through towns like Atwood and Vault H, both places that were maybe not on the best of terms with Patrick, made him uneasy and concerned that something was going to happen to him. Hell, he was concerned that some BoS saboteur would try to destroy the train and ensure he died for good. But nothing like that happened, and once the train left Vault H, Patrick was able to relax, somewhat.

Which was good, because as soon as he and Vince got off the train at Union Station back in Winnipeg, two fully uniformed RAMP officers were at the platform, waiting for him. They were tall, and had a face that seemed to be set almost in a permanent scowl.

"Uh, did I do something wrong?" Patrick asked the female sergeant as they came up to him.

"I don't know. Did you?" she asked. Patrick didn't answer, so she went on. "We're here to take you to RAMP HQ to allow you to freshen up and get briefed on why the Defense Committee wants to talk to you."

"I've been wondering that ever since I got the radiogram," Patrick admitted. "Do you-"

"Sorry, but the Commissioner should be able to tell you," the sergeant replied. Patrick sighed, but honestly didn't expect much more than that.

They started to lead Patrick outside, and Vince followed, but the female sergeant stopped him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"He's with me," Patrick replied.

The sergeant looked over the old, one-eyed man, who flashed a charming smile. She rolled her eyes, but didn't stop Vince from following.

Patrick was lead outside, only getting a few cursory glances of the travelers and staff as a simple farmer was flanked and hustled by two smartly dressed police officers, an older man with an eyepatch trailing behind. A white Fusilier wagon with the red RAMP painted on it was waiting outside, with two black sleipnir's patiently waiting. Another RAMP officer held the reins, and watched as the three people came out of the stone building and loaded up on the wooden wagon. When the doors slammed shut, the driver whipped the sleipnir's into action, and off the wagon rolled.

The ride wasn't comfortable, just hard wooden seats, and felt very awkward. No one wanted to talk, but everyone had something to talk about.

Fortunately the ride of the RAMP HQ was only a few minutes. The Fusilier came to a halt, and Patrick and the RAMP sergeants were unloaded in the stable area, and they walked into the complex. Patrick looked up, and noticed the window with plywood and black scorch marks where he and the legless detective had managed to avoid a bomb earlier.

But Patrick was hustled to a different part of the building, and separated from Vince who was lead to a waiting room somewhere else. Patrick and his guide took wild turns, going up several flights of stairs, and possibly at one point backtracking, but Patrick had no idea where he was being lead anyway, so what mattered?

Eventually they arrived at an office on the sixth floor of the part of the building called Lockhart. The female sergeant knocked on the door, and opened it for Patrick.

And just like that, Patrick found himself in the office of the Commissioner of the RAMP, Jennifer Raymond. The first (and only) time Patrick saw him, she had met Patrick when bringing Colonel Granger to Winnipeg for the first time, and at that time she seemed taller, more splendid than she did now. The difference was easy to tell though. She was in a less ornamental red uniform, one without all the gold braid and ornaments, but with the same rank markers on her sleeve. It was plain, standard, like anything else she had seen here in the RAMP HQ. She was tackling a pile of paperwork, using a pair of glasses to read the typed or handwritten reports, and only looked up for a moment to see who entered.

"Ah, Auxiliary. Just one moment," Commissioner Raymond said, motioning Patrick to a chair in front of her. Once again, the soft voice startled Patrick, but he took the seat anyway. The Commissioner adjusted her glasses, silently mouthed to himself what the paper in front of him said, before he nodded, and grabbed a pen and scrawled what could have been her signature, or the approximation of a four-year-old's doodle, and then set it in the outbox.

"I'm glad you were able to get back to Winnipeg as soon as you could," Raymond said, taking her glasses off. "I'm sorry to hear what happened near Grand Forks. As far as I know, it's the first time since the last war that a Brotherhood team tried to destroy a train. Usually it would be a Dakotan liberation group, or some bandits trying to find easy pickings."

"I'm okay now," Patrick said. But then the thought popped in his head: a disaster that killed about two dozen people, could have resulted in his death, and fighting for his life afterward to ensure he didn't die… and he was okay with it? What was he turning into?

"Anyway," Commissioner Raymond said, pointing a finger at Patrick. "You have been a bad boy, you know that?"

"What? What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"Well, officially, we are at peace with the Brotherhood of Steel," Raymond began matter of factly. "Officially, that means we can't have anyone associated with the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police or the Dominion of Assiniboia running around, shooting up their soldiers, trying to cause towns that are acknowledged to be under the Brotherhood's protection to defect, and otherwise interfere with their internal matters. Then whatever happened in Bomber City, which, as far as the RAMP can gather, you showed up, then the commanding officer of the battalion stationed in the city is suddenly killed. While officially, the RAMP can't, as of this moment, investigate the circumstances of the late Lieutenant-Colonel's death due to the Army claiming authority, it should raise a lot of serious questions, right? All those discrepancies is why you are being called to answer to the Defense Committee. And that can lead to a lot more serious punishments which I can't even begin to describe to you."

Patrick grimaced. For all he knew, this was when he was going to be arrested by the officers outside the door, or just thrown from an open window. There were the stories, decades ago, of an RAMP commissioner who had the "traitors" against the certifiably insane Prime Minister Calvert thrown from the roof of the old Richardson Building in Downtown Winnipeg. The second last person to face that was said RAMP Commissioner when the Prime Minister finally lost power. PM Calvert was the last one, but it's still rumoured that the punishment could be used again.

"Officially," Commissioner Raymond continued, "I can't give a pat on the back for everything that you've done, even if it is rather unorthodox and does raise some issues."

Patrick blinked. "W-what?"

"Auxiliary, Assiniboia knows we are going to be at war with the Brotherhood of Steel soon. Very soon. All evidence points toward that. So everything you've done down south should cause some confusion and issues with the Brotherhood, while helping Assiniboia, in some way or another." Raymond grinned. "And we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

"But what about Bomber City?" Patrick asked. "Isn't that an issue as well?"

"I don't know. Is it?" Raymond asked. "Did you kill Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford?"

"No, ma'am," Patrick answered.

"Even in self defence?"

"No."

"Did you go to Bomber City with the intention of killing Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford?"

"Nope."

"Then I, as the head of the RAMP, doesn't see there any criminal issue that will affect yourself. You are fine there."

Patrick looked at the Commissioner. Something seemed a bit fishy about this. "There's something about this, isn't there?"

Raymond stared at Patrick. "Well, yes. A few things, actually."

"Such as?"

"Well, we have an issue that we need you to look into, on the quiet," Raymond said.

"What sort of issue?"

"Kildonan."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. Kildonan, almost ever since the War of 2077, had been part of Winnipeg, but not really part of Winnipeg. The US Army blew up the bridges that crossed the Red River after reports of the bombs falling reached the city and the pro-Canadian resistance rising up, and then in the panic afterwards buildings and cars were turned into a wall along one of the major streets on the south and east, cutting the entire north-eastern half of the city off. After that it was basically taken over by the Five Gangs of Kildonan, a looser version of the Syndicate, just less violent and trigger happy. They had done a surprising amount of work to improve the standard of living of those in Kildonan, if just to keep the people living there content and working. Of course, turf wars and blood feuds will occasionally flare up and rage for weeks, months, even years before a truce is agreed to. Just because the standard of living was okay in Kildonan doesn't mean that it was a good place to live.

"What do I have to do?"

"Should be straightforward," Commissioner Raymond said. "The Mallers, the only gang in the area that will work with us, has an important message they need to give us."

"Why can't they just send it to you by some other means?"

Raymond sighed. "I've asked that many a time too. But they have reasons. Radiograms are too insecure and expensive, the gangs can't trust anybody, even the hired guns and loyal followers in their gangs, because they may be double agents. You can send an ordinary person to deliver it, but if one of the other gangs find out about it, they could be robbed, roughed up, interrogated or killed… or worse. And you can't even use a damn pigeon to fly over the wall, because they will just get shot down. So, every time they have something for us, we have to send someone in undercover to go get the message. It's a bloody pain in the ass, but we have no other choice."

"But what about the committee hearing?"

"We'll stall. It shouldn't take too long. A few hours, maybe half a day, tops. Then you can get back here, and then take you to the Legislature." The commissioner grinned. "Besides, the committee hearing is a formality. Behind closed doors, and I'll be there to take whatever heat they want to give. Besides: almost everyone in that building has a reason to hate the Brotherhood."

Patrick took a deep breath. "Well, it doesn't sound that hard."

"Just keep your guns close and loaded, and you should be fine." Raymond agreed. "Now, the contact you are looking for is code named Brutus, and you are Julius." She then gave some other details, and a cover story to use. "You should be able to find them at the docks when you go there. Good luck Auxiliary." They both stood up, and she gave a stiff salute. Patrick did his best version of a salute, which to the bemused smile on Commissioner Raymond's face, wasn't anywhere near professional, but respectful enough to not require a chewing out.

"Oh, also," Commissioner Raymond called out, poking his head out into the hallway as Patrick was lead away. "I took the liberty of ordering your Sleipnir, Demon, back here to Winnipeg from Melita. He's currently in the stables."

Patrick nodded. "That was very nice of you, ma'am."

The Commissioner grinned. "A member of the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police, even an Auxiliary, is nothing without his mount." She then ducked back into her office.

Patrick was lead through the maze of hallways and corridors by the female RAMP sergeant until they got to the waiting room that Vince had been left in.

"So, where to now?"

"Kildonan. Should be a simple job." Patrick said, though partially to reassure himself. A lot of the things that he had been asked to do didn't exactly fall under "easy." He hoped this was the exception, but knew better than to actually say that outloud. Some higher being may just take it as a challenge.

The riverboat that was used to ferry people from The Forks to Kildonan had seen better days. Years really. It wasn't even one of the fusion powered boats that normally went up and down the river, but an ancient wood burning contraption that powered the engines that could have most likely been made before the War of 2077. It sputtered, it clanked, it may have smoked several times, but the driver ignored it and powered on through. Patrick was afraid that the thing was going to explode and send them all to their deaths, though by either burning or drowning, Patrick wasn't sure.

But the boat made it to the half-demolished bridge that was used as a dock for the entire north-eastern half of the city. Notably, it was the only part of Kildonan that wasn't walled off in some way or another, and the only place that you could enter the city. Officially, that was: many tunnels and other routes were rumoured to exist, usually under the control of one of the Five Gangs of Kildonan. Battles between the clans over the tunnels, either to keep them open or to destroy them, was just one side of the hostile, never ending war over the area.

Patrick and Vince climbed off the boat and onto the asphalt and steel structure. Several armed guards were nearby, all of whom wore one of five coloured bands or handkerchief on their arms. It was the closest to a uniform that the Five Gangs used, different colours for different groups. Two of them, one with a red band and one with a green, stopped Patrick and Vince.

"What is your business here?" The man with the red band, roughly 30 years old and wearing a pieced together leather armor and holding a long double barreled shotgun, asked Patrick and Vince.

"Here to see family on Hazel Dell Street," Patrick replied, using the cover story that Commissioner Raymond gave him.

The guard looked over Patrick and Vince. Back at the RAMP HQ, they had to leave their backpacks, and were only allowed to carry one gun into Kildonan, as per the rules the Five Gangs could agree on for those entering their turf. Patrick felt almost naked without the heavy backpack and the assault rifle, laser rifle, and other weapons he had gathered over the past few weeks. But he kept the .44 Magnum on his hip. Vince, who packed a lot lighter than Patrick, had an old M1911 .45 pistol that he affectionately named "Lil' Bertha." Otherwise, they looked as dirty and ragged and poor as anyone else on the boat.

"Alright, come on in then. Just keep your noses clean."

Patrick and Vince nodded, and walked off the old bridge, past the gate guarded by several more men - this time with blue, yellow and white bands on their arms of the other three Gangs - and into Kildonan itself.

The area around the gate was a small marketplace, focused around a group of old stores and buildings along Henderson Highway. To one side, there was a store with a heavily armed guard in a polished suit of metal armor standing guard. Past him and through the open door Patrick could see a wide variety of arms and weapons, which was reason enough to have a guard outside. A sign haphazardly painted out front shouted "EVERYONE IN KILDONAN WELCOME!" Across from the weapons dealer was a store with another guard, this time a woman with leather armor and a powerful sniper rifle smoking a cigarette. The sign on the building said "Consumable Products, Ltd." But, considering that it was guarded, the windows were barred and also covered in plywood, and several shifty, shady, and twitchy people were hanging around outside, Patrick had a feeling it wasn't just food and water sold there.

From a bar on Henderson the front door crashed open, and two men, one a very tough and fit young man and a grey haired older man with lots of scars over his body from a lifetime of hard living, were kicking and gouging in the mud, the blood and the beer.

"Fun place, isn't it?" Vince said, glancing at a scantily clad woman - more that the few clothes she wore was basically falling apart than anything on purpose - try to act as seductive as she could to get their attention. When Vince and Patrick walked on, she swore at them rather loudly and bluntly, before turning around to try to get someone else's attention for a good time.

"This is why few people go to Kildonan unless they have to." Patrick reached for his gun, to make sure it was still there. "So, hopefully whatever we have to do, it will be quick."

The two walked into the weapons shop, the glowering eyes of the guard following them in. But he didn't stop Patrick or Vince, so they entered the store.

An older balding man was standing behind the counter, haggling with a customer, with a hunting rifle between them.

"You know as well as I that this gun is not worth anywhere near 150 Pounds! A hundred would still be stealing!" the customer exclaimed, over emphasizing his righteous anger and incredulity. "How about 80?"

"Ai, you may say that," the store owner said, chewing on something in his mouth. "But this is my store, and I say 150. Besides, this weapon has been thoroughly cleaned just two days ago, works perfectly, and never jams. But since you are a return customer, I will give you 135."

The customer and owner bartered and barked and haggled back and forth for another ten minutes, until they settled on 105 Pounds, and five dozen rounds of .32 bullets. The customer, grumbling a bit at the price, grabbed his purchase and walked out.

The gun dealer then turned to Patrick and Vince. "And what can I help you gentlemen with today?"

"I'm here looking to cut out a problem," Patrick said, remembering the phrase he was told to use.

The man's mouth stopped chewing for a moment, his eyes darting all over. "Ah, of course. You need a good solid one, no? Let me take you around back."

The man came out from behind the counter, but not before giving a sharp whistle. Just like that, the outside door slammed shut, and a key turned in the lock. Patrick winced at the bang, and then spun his head around to the store owner.

"It's best not to be interrupted here, Julius," the man said.

"Alright, Brutus," Patrick replied. The man gave a faint smile and pushed open a door that lead to a back room.

It was a small living area, with a bed on one side, a table and several chairs, and a radio, along with dozens of empty beer and whisky bottles piled all over the place. The man removed some from the table, and sat down on one of the chairs. Patrick sat on the other one across from him.

"So, you from the RAMP?" The man code-named Brutus asked. Patrick nodded. "I couldn't expect many other people would know the code name and phrases exactly."

There was a brief pause, as if Brutus was expecting Patrick to admit he killed the other guy and got all the information. But he didn't say anything.

"Anyway, to business," Brutus said. "Ricardo, the head honcho of the Mallers, has discovered a major plot underfoot inside all the gangs of Kildonan, to have more Brotherhood leaning leaders come to power, possibly enough to unify the gangs and attack Winnipeg itself. He himself managed to kill some of the more incompetent people that tried to kill and replace him, but he's certain there is more."

Patrick blinked. "Wow, that's big."

"This could be devastating Julius," Brutus admitted. "The problem is, the Mallers have no idea when the attack will come. But it will be soon, very soon. Any attempts to find out when, where, and who have run into dead ends… or bullets."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Patrick asked. He then turned his head as he heard something up front. There was a loud argument: the guard up front was shouting at someone, maybe that the store was closed for the day.

"Get the message to the RAMP, and Commissioner Raymond. As long as she knows, maybe Assiniboia could be prepared," Brutus said. "That could be the only thing protecting Winnipeg itself."

"What's in it for the Mallers to work with Assiniboia?" Patrick asked. "I'd have thought they would want to be independent."

"Of course we do," Brutus said. "However, this conspiracy is threatening it by having one gang take over the others. We like to be independent of Assiniboia, but we also want to be independent of each other. And for all the problems we have with Assiniboia, at least they aren't trying to force us together against our will. That's what Ricardo is most afraid of."

Patrick thought about it, then nodded. "Okay, I'll leave as soon as-"

There was a gunshot. Not just one, but a half dozen all at once. Brutus started upright, looking to where the gunshots came from. He reached down to pull out a shotgun from under the table.

"Alright, fun time's over. You better get the hell out of here," Brutus said, standing up. "Take the back door you two. And be prepared to shoot your way out if you need to. Now go!"

Brutus went up front, just as the door burst open. He began to shout at the intruders, before he ended up shooting his shotgun, followed by a scream in pain and a volley of other gunshots.

Patrick and Vince had already dashed out of the room, managing to avoid being seen by whoever had burst into the gun store a moment ago, and sprinted around to the back and the back door. Patrick, yanking his .44 Magnum from his hip, Vince with Big Bertha already cocked and loaded. As adrenaline pumped through his body, Patrick ran straight at the door, and smashed into it with his shoulder, making the wooden door splinter and burst open.

Patrick jumped through the old, rotten door and right into the muzzle of several rifle barrels.

"Of course, they always try to climb out the back," one of the riflemen, with a green armband smirked. "What did I tell you?"

"Shut up," a woman, also with a green band on her arm said. "Okay, you two: what were you two doing in there."

"W-we were just buying some guns," Patrick said, hoping his quivering voice wouldn't be taken for the lie it was.

"Then what were you doing talking to the big guy there in his back room, huh?"

"I don't know. He just asked us to go back there to show us a special gun," Vince replied. "It was a nice gun, really expensive though."

"Yeah fucking right," the chick snarled. "You're just some Assy punks trying to destroy Kildonan. We know that the so-called 'Brutus' is a spy for the Mounties, and we know you were at the RAMP HQ."

"How did you…" Patrick started to ask, but the guy smacked Patrick over the face with a backhand.

"Shut up! Now, what did Brutus tell you?"

"He told me nothing," Patrick said.

Another backhand, this one stronger. "Liar! Now what did he tell you?"

Patrick could feel blood dripping from his nose. "He… he didn't get a chance to tell me."

There wasn't a backhand. This time it was a punch to the gut that made Patrick fold in on himself. He would have fallen down had Vince not been holding him up. "What the fuck did he say?"

The door behind them slammed open. Brutus, bleeding, limping, and with a black eye staggered out, shotgun pointed at the gangsters with the green bandanas on their arms.

"I said to fuck you, you traitors!" the angry, bloodied shop owner said, before pulling the trigger and making one of the gangsters fall over, dead before he hit the ground, with another beside him having buckshot striking half his body, and he fell down, flailing and screaming in pain.

The other four gangsters turned to Brutus and began to fire at him. Brutus spun around, shielding himself from the gunfire with the wall, and reloaded his gun.

Vince half dragged, half walked Patrick out of the middle to behind the wall on the other side, and pulled out Big Bertha. He leaned out far enough to see, and pulled the trigger. His .45 caliber handgun struck the woman with the green armband in the chest, making her fall and spasm as she choked on her own blood. He then aimed at another gangster, but the three shots he fired all missed as he noticed Vince and ducked behind a pile of old steel beams and concrete. He and the few other gangsters all returned fire as well as they could to both Brutus and Vince and Patrick.

Patrick, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath, with the ache in his stomach, finally managed to pull out his revolver, and add his .44 Magnum bullets that flew through the air. He might have struck a person, or he might not have, he didn't know. A bullet cracked past his head, making him duck reflexively. But he spun around, and caught one of the gangsters in the head as he peaked up to try to see what was going on.

"Vince!" Patrick nearly shouted into his companion's ear. "We got to get out of here!"

Off in the distance in he could hear more gunshots and screams, and he even saw smoke coming from the docks, as it sounded like all of Kildonan was beginning to go up in flames.

"Yeah, good idea. But where?"

"Boats will be locked down, I bet. My guess is to the Mall. Maybe the head guy there could help us?" Patrick replied.

"Yeah, if Brutus was telling the truth." Vince shoved another stick of ammo into Big Bertha. He saw the last two gangsters trying to run away, and he fired at them. But none of them went down. All that was left was the bodies of those killed or injured, and the iron stink of blood and gunpowder in the air.

A momentary silence descended, with only the muffled sounds of gunshots, screams, and the wail of a siren somewhere to get past Patrick's ringing ears. Carefully he stepped out, and looked around.

Brutus was dead now, having taken more lead than any man Patrick had seen before. Patrick took the shotgun still clutched in his cold, dead hands, along with some of the shotgun shells that he had beside him. He might need that firepower, with all his other guns sitting at the RAMP HQ right now. Vince grabbed a submachine gun that one of the gangsters had, and as many clips of ammo as he could for it.

"Hey, look at this," Vince said, reaching into the shirt of one of the men, one that was acting like a leader of the group earlier, and dug out a small metal disc. Patrick walked over and bent down to look at it. It was an etching of the emblem of the Brotherhood of Steel.

"Shit. This isn't good."

"Nope," Patrick said, as he took the dog tag off the man's neck. "I just hope we can stop this soon before it turns into a bigger mess."

Newly armed, they began to walk to the east toward where Patrick, using his Pip-Boy map, was pretty sure the Mall they were heading toward was.

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #2917

The Five Gangs of Kildonan: From the Encyclopedia Assiniboia, 2179 Edition

Soon after the bombs fell and the US Army left, a power vacuum emerged in Winnipeg. While the Dominion of Assiniboia was established, it took them years to gain full control of the city from gangs, small self-declared towns or even entire regions that had been abandoned to wild dogs. Northeastern Winnipeg, (composed of North Kildonan, East Kildonan, Elmwood and Transcona) on the other side of the Red River, was no exception. It was quickly filled by several criminal elements which, unlike most other places in Winnipeg, managed to hold on to a form of semi-autonomous independence right to the present day.

The five gangs are most or less identical in goals, organization and weapons. They all want to establish themselves as the preeminent power in Kildonan, but they do not want the other's to gain such an advantage, so often team up to prevent one gang from gaining too much power. They all make their Pounds off of drug dealing, weapons smuggling, extortion, bribery and corruption. Most own some more legitimate businesses, including workshops, stores, hotels, and banks, sometimes with branches in the city of Winnipeg itself.

There have been many, many conflicts between the five gangs, and alliances are always temporary and constantly shifting based on the current situation. While full-fledged battles are common, they usually try to minimize civilian casualties as much as possible: killing bystanders is usually a good way to make the people of the area, who already work long hours, pay high bribes and are addicted to their chems, grow angry and rise in revolt. There is a spot, at the ruins of the Transcona (which no gang directly controls), that has been turned into an arena where the gangs can simply let off steam and fight each other without damaging other areas of the region. All Five almost guard the wall built along Highway 59 and Regent Avenue, to ensure the Dominion does not interfere in their freedom.

The Five Gangs are: The Chief Peguis, named after the major thoroughfare, and are recognized with the colour red; The Mallers based on the old Kildonan Mall and one of the only major greenhouses in the area, and use Green; The Hendersons, another gang named by a major thoroughfare, and using Blue); The Rossmere, named after the golf course and curling club, and symbolized by the colour White; and Eaglemeres, a old-world residential district, and using Yellow.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Kildonan was a city on fire. Gunshots and smoke filled the air as Patrick and Vince dashed between the cover of houses and stores along Regent Avenue that were on the verge of collapse after decades of neglect or fighting between different gangs. The two men stumbled on people: old men, young children and mothers with wide, scared eyes, hiding from the fighting in an old house, terrified of everything that came nearby. Patrick and Vince didn't have time to stop, instead running further along the wide, broken street that was towered to their left by the wall of cars, steel and rubble that formed the Kildonan Wall

A small group of gangsters, either drunk or high on Psycho and Jet, or just terrified for their lives, fired on Patrick and Vince when they tried to cross a small street. In return, the sober but adrenaline pumped duo would return fire, then make their escape, heading further east, leaving the would-be bandits wounded and fighting amongst themselves.

It took over an hour of on again, off again fighting and trying to avoid a possible ambushes or attacks by disoriented gangsters and residents just trying to defend their homes before they finally got to the mall that was once known as Kildonan Place.

But when they got to a checkpoint in the smaller wall along Lagimodiere Boulevard that surrounded the mall, Patrick froze just a few feet away from the guarded opening into the wall.

All of them wore green armbands.

"Oh shit," Patrick said, eyes wide in fear.

"What?" Vince asked, before turning around to look at the armed men and women at the checkpoint. After a moment, Vince realized just what Patrick meant.

"Hey!" one of the guards shouted. "What are you doing there? Get over here!"

Vince and Patrick, realizing that this time they were outgunned, outnumbered and with no surprise or anything on their side, sulked closer.

But instead of being shot right then and there, the guard motioned them through the door. "Hurry up and get inside!"

Now Patrick was very confused. "What?"

"Are you residents of Kildonan?"

"Uhh… not exactly," Patrick said. "I'm from Assiniboia…"

"Okay, don't care. Get in!" Another guard was already opening a door. Patrick and Vince glanced at each other, and the older, one-eyed man gave a shrug, so they walked through the gate.

Inside was a mass of humanity: hundreds, if not thousands of people milling around, camping out on the old pavement or grass, talking amongst each other. Everyone was quiet and sullen. Somewhere a baby wailed, and women and children cried.

A man in a nice, if dirty suit and a green armband came up. He had a clipboard in his hand, and a 10mm pistol on his hip. "Can I help you?"

"I… uh… what's going on here?" Patrick asked, confused.

"You don't know? The Mallers have always been a welcoming place, unlike some of the other gangs here in Kildonan. We've always opened our doors to allow anyone here, and with what's going on outside…" the man's voice trailed off, but he shook his head.

"Do you know what is going on?" Patrick asked.

"As far as we can tell, a shootout near the dock turned into a huge bloodbath, and all of Kildonan is now in a state of anarchy."

"Well, we were involved in that shootout," Vince said. "And it looked like some of your green-armed thugs were part of it."

The man blinked. "What?"

"Six or so people with green armbands were shooting at us when we were at a gun store."

The man blinked again. "Who shot first?"

"Well, they captured us, and were about to shoot but the store owner started it."

The man took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. "Okay, I think we need to talk to Ricardo about this, ASAP. Follow me."

Patrick and Vince followed the man with the suit through the crowd, winding around small groups and cutting through an impromptu soccer game between little kids and teenagers that their parents and other adults cheered on. They got to the Mall itself, and after the man told the password to the guard, they were let in.

The inside of the mall was like any of the old world malls: large, cavernous expanses of concrete, wood and tile, with the front of old shops falling apart and fountains either empty or half full of stagnant water where fountains would have once shot water skywards to the delight of young children. Somewhere, an old PA system continued to play soft music, as if the previous 140 years of the post-apocalypse had never happened, with just the occasional loud screech and static as holotapes skipped and songs blurred to remind people that things had changed. But unlike the Shoppers Mall in Brandon that was just a big barracks, the malls on the inside of the old Perimeter Highway were designed to become giant greenhouses. Patrick had always heard the stories of them, but never got a chance to step inside one before.

Inside the old stores, specially designed hydroponic stations had been set up, with food growing under the lamps and water soaking the different fruits and vegetables and certain grains with a fine mist. The Morrison farm, like many small farms throughout Assiniboia, might be able to provide wheat and other grains, along with Brahmin and other meat to their local areas and even ship them to Winnipeg, this was industrialized agriculture to a fine-tuned degree, designed to feed thousands of people with crops and food that otherwise would be impossible. Lots of robots, along with dozens of people in dirty clothing not far removed from what Patrick would have worn while working on his farm milled around, checking gauges and measuring different plants, with some doing the hard work of harvesting food that would be rationed or sold off. The building was warm, humid, and often mud and water seeped from the different rooms and stores into the hallways.

But alongside the indoor farms was a lot of armed men and women, all with green armbands. Some looked at Patrick and Vince with suspicion bordering on the paranoia, but with their escort, who was clearly someone of a higher status in the Mallers, they were left alone.

They walked up an old escalator and onto the second floor, then turned down another hallway. Here the man in the suit was stopped again, and he gave a different password. They were let in once again.

Unlike the quiet serenity of the greenhouse part of the mall, this part was a madhouse. People shouted, radios blared, and somewhere a loud jangling sound could be heard. People, some in suits and dresses, some in the hap-hazard leather and metal armor ran about, barking orders and calling for other people.

Patrick and Vince's guide lead them through the mad melee of people until they got to a decent sized room. Seven or eight people were standing around a table with a map of Winnipeg, with a lot of pins stuck in where Kildonan was.

"No, I don't care what the Eaglemere guy demands, I'm not backing down!" one man, in a suit that didn't seem to fit him very well, and seemed a couple sizes too big shouted into a telephone receiver. On closer inspection, Patrick realized he was wearing a bulletproof vest under the jacket. "You tell him that I will talk with him with my men on my side of the damn line!" he slammed the receiver down, and spun around to see the man that lead Patrick and Vince. "What the fuck are you doing here Matt? I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on the refugees!"

"Ricardo, these two men here have some… news to tell you. About the fight that started this at the gun store by the docks."

Ricardo looked at Patrick and Vince. "So? What is it? Spit it out! I don't have time!"

Patrick bit his lip. "Uhh...well we were ambushed."

"By who?" Ricardo demanded.

"By people with your armbands," Patrick replied.

Ricardo stared at Patrick. "What?"

Patrick then explained to Ricardo what had happened, and why they were here, and then handing over the Brotherhood dog tag they found.

"How the hell did you manage to even take down a Brotherhood agent? It took 14 of my own people to kill just the one that tried to assassinate me."

"I've done it before," Patrick said.

A lady in a full suit of metal armor looked him over. "Who are you?"

"They call me the Auxiliary," Patrick said. That brought a moment of quiet to the otherwise noisy room.

"Huh. So I guess the Asses do care. Sometimes," Ricardo said, then spat on the floor. "Okay, so if what you say is true, Auxiliary, then it's worse than I feared. The fucking BoS has agents all throughout Kildonan. Not many, but just enough to cause the chaos already going on. This is just what Assiniboia needs as an excuse to march in and take over."

"What if it was an Assiniboian plant?" someone asked. "You can never trust the damn Mounties."

"What would they gain to have a huge area, just north of their capital, tearing itself apart? Not only that but the damage could start spreading out more," Patrick replied. "Plus, most of the army is in the south to get ready to fight the Brotherhood, or in Brandon already. Why get into a third fight?"

Ricardo chewed on his lip. "Alright then. I can talk to the other gang leaders, see if we can hammer out a peace. But before I do that, I need a 100% assurance from the RAMP that they will not interfere. The last thing we need right now is some Redcoats charging in on Sleipnir's to 'restore order.' That will just lead to a bigger bloodbath. So if the Mounties stay out, and I get a chance to get in contact with the bosses, then we can get this damn firefight under control."

Patrick nodded. "Is there a way to get out of Kildonan that isn't through the docks? Because I'd rather not fight through the city again."

"Yeah. We got a few tunnels under the wall," Ricardo said. "Jack! Lizy!" he barked, two of the armed soldiers nearby looking up. "Blindfold these two and take them through Tunnel… 3. Make sure they can't see shit."

"May I ask why?" Vince asked. "I'm already an eye short."

"Because I don't want the Mounties to find out these tunnels. Got it?" The way Ricardo spoke gave the impression that there would be some bodily harm if they continued this line of questioning.

Jack and Lizy lead Patrick and Vince out of the room - where they started shouted and the old telephone jangled off it's hook again - down the broken escalators, but instead of going through the mall, they went down a different hallway to a door that lead to the basement. It was at this point that they were stopped, and two green bandana's were pulled out of their pocket (Patrick idly wondered where all those green bandana's came from) and tied it around their head to cover their eyes.

Satisfied that they were blinded, one of them opened the door, and another grabbed hold of Patrick's shoulder, and began to push and guide him through the door. After a few steps Patrick realized the ground was sloping downwards: not enough to make him fall, but enough to be noticeable. It was also uneven, and Patrick could hear dirt and gravel crunch under his feet. The walls and ceiling were also pretty small, and Patrick's shoulders brushed up against the walls, making dirt and stones fall, and at one point his hat was nearly knocked off. The person who was guiding him adjusted the hat though, and a bit later made him turn to the left, and then the right a bit after that, and then the left again.

There was a loud fwump and cry as Vince tripped on a large rock, but the gangster quickly got him up.

"Shut up! People can still hear us!" Lily, the female gangster half whispered, half yelled through clenched teeth. Vince shut up.

Finally, after a long, quiet forever, the ground started to slope up again, before it flattened again. Then Patrick was stopped by the hand that guided him the entire way.

"Wait here. We'll check to see if the coast is clear."

Two pairs of footsteps walked past Patrick, and then he heard a creaking door. There was a long silence before the unoiled door's hinges creaked again, followed by the footsteps.

"Alright," the man said, grabbing Patrick's shoulder. "Gonna take you on a ride to your drop off point for the RAMP to pick you up.

Patrick nodded, and was roughly lead again, going through the door. He heard a Sleipnir snort, and another wooden door hinge open.

"Alright, into the Fusilier. Let's go!" Lily said.

Patrick wasn't able to find his footing that easily, but when he finally found the bottom rung, he was able to climb up. Vince followed soon behind, along with one of their guards. The Fusilier smelled as if it had carried brahmin meat, unrefrigerated. He heard Vince make a bit of a gagging sound, but, despite the overpowering stench, Patrick even smiled. It reminded him of home, so long ago and far away from where he was now.

The door was closed again, and a moment later there was a muffled tongue click and the wagon lurched forward.

The Fusilier rumbled along the streets, hitting potholes and bumps, and swaying from side to side as it turned, first one way, then that. The loud squeaky wheels, the clip-clop of the eight legged Sleipnir pulling the Fusilier, and the muffled rumbling of people hawking whatever they were selling, children squealing and shouting in excitement and other Fusiliers and sleipnir's rumbling along, as well as Brahmin and every other sound of a large settlement coming through the wooden walls.

"Alright Auxiliary, you can take off your blindfold now." Lily said. Patrick reached behind his head and pulled off the bandana.

The sleipnir drawn Fusilier had no windows, so it was dark, which only made the smell of old, raw brahmin meat stand out even more. Patrick flipped the flashlight on his Pipboy so he could see better.

It was just Patrick, Vince and Lily in the wagon. She still held her gun, but it wasn't pointed at either of the two men, so Patrick hoped that meant she was protecting them, and not actually on the verge of shooting them.

"Where are we going?"

"To the Forks. There is always a lot of people there, as well as Fusiliers and shit, so you'd easily blend in, and no one will be the wiser. The Mounties you'll meet will most likely be plain clothes, if it's anything like the way we did this before. But they will take you to wherever you need to go."

Patrick shrugged. But then the wagon lurched to a halt, and Patrick had to brace himself to make sure he didn't fall over. The sounds of people was a lot quieter, and now it sounded like a lot of sleipnir's was around, like they were in a stable.

"Alright, let's go," Lily said, as the doors were unlocked.

The bright light from the outside nearly blinded Patrick, who had to blink a lot to get his bearings straight. Two men in clothing that wouldn't appear that uncommon from an ordinary person, but each with a holster that held a .44 Magnum not unlike Patrick's was standing there. Vince followed right behind.

One of them came up, and pointed to another Fusilier, this one an unpainted one with a couple windows on each side, though covered with a thin wire mesh that would allow some air through, and dust and tiny insects, but not much else. "Alright Auxiliary, you and your friend, in you go."

"Uh, badges?" Patrick asked. "Just, you know, to make sure?"

The two men looked at Patrick, shrugged, and reached into the pockets to pull out their gold coloured RAMP badges. Patrick nodded and the badges vanished.

Patrick and Vince walked to the next wagon and climbed up into it. One of the RAMP officers climbed up behind them into the Fusilier, and the door was closed behind him. The wagon then began to roll.

Like before, the Fusilier rumbled along the road, taking this turn and that one, bouncing over roads and pavement that hadn't been fixed in over 140 years. The sounds of sleipnir's and wagons, then of people began to disappear. A train blew its whistle, a rush of steam as it pulled into the train station that was near the Forks, but soon that sound also began to disappear as well. After a while, only the sound of the wind, along with the creaking Fusilier and Sleipnir hooves could be heard.

Suddenly a dull sound of rotars and engines could be heard, growing louder and louder by the moment.

"That sounds familar," Patrick thought, trying to look out of the window, but he couldn't see anything.

"Vertibirds," the RAMP officer riding with Patrick said.

"Really? Assiniboia has vertibirds?"

"Nope, their Enclave. We have a base near the Airport…"

"We?" Patrick asked. The officer seemed to tighten up.

"Sorry, meant that Assiniboia - we - have a base at the Airport that the Enclave is using. Allow them to refuel and fix their stuff and all that."

Patrick raised an eyebrow, and Patrick could tell the person was nervous, but he let it slide. But something seemed wrong.

"We should be there by now," Patrick finally said to the guy in the back after another fifteen or so minutes of riding in the Fusilier.

"Don't worry, we'll be there soon. Just have to take some detours, make sure no one is following." But the guy was looking a bit uneasy too, and was often glancing out the window next to him.

Patrick sighed, and glanced out the mesh screen at his head as well. The first thing he noticed through the thin holes was the lack of people. He didn't see a single person outside, though he heard some birds take off, squawking at the sleipnir drawn wagon for disturbing them. But the next thing he noticed was that the buildings were, for the most part, in ruins. No windows remained in any of the buildings, doors hung off hinges, and many houses were little more than rotted wood, concrete chunks and rusty metal.

"Where the hell are we?" Patrick asked, turning to the man in the wagon with them.

He answered by drawing his gun and pointing it at Patrick. "I have my orders to make sure you don't interfere."

"Interfere with what?" Patrick asked.

"With the rebirth of America," the man said with a grin.

"America?" Vince said. "America is dead."

"But not the Enclave," the man with the gun said, still smiling. "And the Enclave is America. And the Enclave will make America great again. Starting with Assiniboia."

"Wait, you're trying to take over Assiniboia?"

"Try? There is no try. We will do it."

"America's been dead long before the bombs dropped all those years ago," Vince said. "And it sure wasn't great back then. The idea of America was always the Land of the Free, Home of the Brave and all that crap. But I've heard the stories all over North America of how, before the war, the rich controlled the government, cut their taxes so they didn't have to pay for anything, and then waged war with China, took over Mexico and Canada, and then used the army to kill protesters in the street when people realized their resources were running out and they were going bankrupt, and then dying of disease and even starvation. It wasn't an American dream: it was a nightmare."

"The Enclave will fix it all. There will be no more riots, no more hunger, no more war. Just peace, freedom, and power." The Enclave guy said, reciting the brainwashing he had ever since he was born. But his face was turning red as Vince continued to argue.

"The last time I heard that, somewhere down south, it only lead to the rise of a madman who destroyed not just his home, but a half dozen other settlements that were on the verge of civilization. There is nothing but ashes and bodies there now. And that's exactly what you will do here!" Vince was nearly shouting right into the Enclave soldiers face now. "I may have only one good eye, but I can see clearly what is going to happen. You will set the world back decades, a century or more if you destroy Assiniboia, and try to remake your twisted, demented idea of America!"

The Enclave soldier snarled, and in a flash turned his revolver around and swiped it through the air, connecting with Vince's skull. Vince groaned, then collapsed on the floor of the wagon.

Patrick reached for his own revolver but the Enclave man was quicker, and managed to tackle Patrick before he could grab the .44 Magnum.

The wagon came to a stop as Patrick and the Enclave man fought. The back door opened and the second Enclave agent came in, and joined in beating up Patrick. One fist to the gut knocked the air out Patrick, and he folded up like a switchblade on the floor.

"Let's drop them off here," one of them said, wiping blood from his nose. "They'd be as good as dead out here."

Patrick tried to struggle, but he was unceremoniously shoved out of the Fusilier, falling to the broken pavement and spraining his ankle as he landed on it awkwardly. He tried to stand up, but at that moment the unconscious body of Vince was tossed out and landed on Patrick, knocking him down again with a cry of pain, and his head smashing against the road with a sickening crack, and all Patrick could see was stars in front of his eyes.

The man driving the Fusilier climbed back into it and whipped the Sleipnir into action, and with a startled whinny the wagon and riders raced off.

Patrick's head hurt. That was almost an understatement: it felt like a super mutant was using a sledgehammer on him. He was disoriented and confused, trying to piece together what happened. Not only that, he was pinned down by an unconscious man and he couldn't reach his hip.

"Well… fuck," Patrick groaned. "Could today get any fucking worse?"

As if an answer to his question, there was a loud howl, with more echoing through the rubble of the old abandoned street. That didn't sound good at all.

"You just had to say that, didn't you Patrick?" Patrick asked himself, groaning as he tried wiggle his arms out, and then to push Vince off of him so he could try to get up. It took a bit of work, but he managed to roll Vince off of him, and stood up. His ankle hurt, but he could still walk.

He looked up down the street to see a very large dog, skinny, mangey, and growling at Patrick. The mutt looked dangerous and vicious, it's fur puffed out to make it look bigger and more intimidating. And it was then that Patrick remembered riding in the Fusilier that had carrie Brahmin meat at one point, so he most likely smelled delicious.

This was quickly becoming one of the worst days he ever had.

Patrick reached down for his hip, but the .44 Magnum that had done him so much good for the past few weeks was gone.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!" Patrick screamed at himself under his breath, looking around to see if he could find anything as a weapon, while also keeping an eye on the dog as it came closer and closer, snarling and drooling in hunger.

Patrick looked around again, then saw something from the corner of his eye where an old car sat. He gave a small grin, and glancing back to the slowly approaching, snarling dog, he counted to himself, before he sprinted toward the car.

The dog began to bark and chase after Patrick. He just managed to get to the car before the vicious mutt caught him, and he grabbed the rusty tire iron from the back and swung around, managing to catch one of the dog in the top of it's head. It yelped and fell down.

But it sprung back up and grabbed hold of Patrick's leg and began to shake. Patrick screamed as the teeth bit into his leg, but a couple smacks with the tire iron over the dog's head made it let go and retreat again, but just far enough to be out of reach of Patrick's swing. Blood began to pour from the wound, soaking into the dirty clothing he was wearing and dripping onto the road.

The two combatants looked at each other: the dog snarling and panting heavily, and Patrick, tired and injured, starting to think that, maybe after all this time, this was the end.

The dog snarled and began to ran back at Patrick, and took a leap through the air to go toward Patrick's throat.

BANG!

The dog continued to go through the air, but it smashed into the car head first just a foot away from Patrick's head. A large bullet hole in it's head told Patrick it died instantly.

Patrick, his entire body shaking, looked over to see Vince, Big Bertha in hand, smiling.

"That's enough excitement for today, is it not?" Vince said.

Patrick got himself up and limped over to Vince. The leg he was bit on was the opposite leg of his sore ankle, so he wasn't moving anywhere fast.

"Well, nice to see you're awake," Patrick said, half-sitting, half-falling down beside Vince.

"Oh, I was awake the whole time. I just pretended to be knocked out by the Enclave bastard," Vince admitted. "Sorry about that, but I didn't want to startle you earlier."

Patrick glared at Vince. "I would have rather had a heart attack from you scaring me than from nearly being eaten by a wild dog."

Vince chuckled, and sat himself up. "Alright, let's see if we can get you fixed up.

Vince took a knife out of one of his many pockets and cut open Patrick's pant leg. He then cut off a chunk of his shirt and wrapped it firmly, but not too tightly, around Patrick's leg where the bite was.

"If I had some whiskey I would clean that up. Hell, if I had a stimpak, I'd just give you that. But I got neither," Vince muttered as he finished tying up the wound.

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't rabid, so I'm not going to die that quickly," Patrick said.

"So where are we even?" Vince asked.

Patrick looked around. There was a street sign on the corner that, while rusty and with flaking paint, spelt out that they were near the corner of Machray Avenue and Monreith Street. An old school that had seen better centuries lay just to the north. He then looked to the south-east, he saw the towers that rose over Portage and Main, bright and illuminated amongst the darkened ruins around them. "Well… fuck." Patrick looked at his PipBoy map to verify what he thought.

"What?"

"We're in the North End. Nobody has lived up here for over a hundred years, so it's basically a wasteland. The closest place would be the Health Sciences Center, but it's at least… three kilometers to the south. There is nothing to the north or west, and to the east is the Red River… and Kildonan."

Vince stood up, dusted himself off, and reholstered Big Bertha, before helping heave Patrick up onto his feet. "Well, we might as well go south then." he glanced to the west, where the sun was beginning to set. "And we better move quickly, so we don't have any unexpected surprises."

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #9999/Assiniboian Emergency Notification System.

ALL CAPABLE RADIO STATIONS SHALL TRANSMIT THIS EMERGENCY NOTIFICATION TO ALL LISTENERS.

##########

EMERGENCY/EMERGENCY/EMERGENCY

##########

THIS IS NOT A TEST. THE DOMINION OF ASSINIBOIA HAS DECLARED A STATE OF EMERGENCY IN THE CITY OF WINNIPEG, EFFECTIVE JUNE 19, 2218 AT 15:08 HOURS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. FIGHTING IN KILDONAN HAS ERUPTED, WITH FIRES SPREADING QUICKLY, GUNSHOTS AND EXPLOSIONS KILLING AND INJURING MANY. DO NOT GO NEAR KILDONAN. RAMP AND THE ARMY HAS DEPLOYED FORCES TO KEEP THE FIGHTING FROM WINNIPEG ITSELF. ANYONE IN THE VICINITY OF KILDONAN SHO-

##########

EMERGENCY/EMERGENCY/EMERGENCY

##########

THIS IS NOT A TEST. ARMED SOLDIERS IN ENCLAVE UNIFORMS ARE SEIZING STRATEGIC AND IMPORTANT POINTS AROUND WINNIPEG. THIS IS AN ATTACK WARNING. ENCLAVE SOLDIERS ARE MOUNTING A COUP IN WINNIPEG. DO NOT AID THE ENCLAVE. REMAIN IN YOUR HOMES, DO NOT GO OUTSIDE. DO NOT FIRE ON THE ENCLAVE, AS THEY WILL REPLY WITH DEADLY FORCE. AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, DO NOT-

##########

THIS IS THE ENCLAVE. DO NOT FEAR US. WE ARE HERE TO BRING PEACE AND ORDER TO THE WORLD. DO NOT GET IN OUR WAY, AND YOU WILL BE SAFE. TOMORROW IS A BRIGHT DAY FOR ASSINIBOIA AND AMERICA.

GOD BLESS THE ENCLAVE! GOD BLESS AMERICA!


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty Two

"Hey, why don't you turn on the radio?" Vince suggested after they had been picking their way through the North End, walking south on Arlington Street. "Might even keep the animals away with all the noise."

Patrick shrugged. "It really can't hurt." The ruined homes, factories, churches, community centers and businesses had long been abandoned was now home almost solely to animals, making the long abandoned and forsaken area of old Winnipeg home. Patrick and Vince had spent the first hour or so dodging vicious canines and feral felines, as well as all sorts of wildlife that made the North End home, including radgophers, mole rats and even a radscorpion. Patrick had never seen one of the massive multi-legged insects before, but Vince had, and a few quick shots to its face made the creature curl up and die.

Patrick turned the knob of the radio on his Pip Boy, and waited for the vacuum tubes to warm up. A song was finishing, but it was a lot different than anything he had before, with a lot of boisterous trumpets and flutes and drums playing marching music. It really seemed weird to Patrick.

Then the radio went silent for a long period, with a lot of static, pops and whistles in the background.

"This is a message from the Dominion Broadcasting Service," a voice, very hesitant and clearly uncomfortable woman was speaking, but she didn't sound like any of the regular broadcasters on DBS. "Due to the current situation in Winnipeg, all normal programming has ceased for an indefinite period of time. The Enclave High Command has asked that everyone please stay indoors and off the streets until further notice. The Enclave is here to restore order, and bring peace and freedom to Assiniboia. Further updates will be provided on this channel at a future time."

Then a blaring patriotic march that Patrick had never heard before began to play again. Patrick turned to another station. The Winnipeg News Network, the other major station in Winnipeg, wasn't even playing the music, it was nothing but dead air. Radio-Tainment Assiniboia was still broadcasting, but only music. Patrick sighed, and left the station on to provide some noise. It seemed to work, as most of the skittish wildlife wasn't used to such loud noises so kept in the shadows.

After a couple hours of walking and the occasional fight with the wildlife not scared off by the songs that were popular two hundred years ago, they reached the railway tracks that marked the edge of modern Winnipeg. South of the tracks was a huge shanty town, built were hundreds of miles of old steel had been torn out to be recycled over the decades after the War of 2077. The people who lived here had started as refugees from the violence of the North End and those from outside Winnipeg and Manitoba that heard of a city untouched by bombs in the war and hoped to find some peace in the world, along with the people that lived in the area before. But all those people had made the area home, or as close as they could. While clean water was available thanks to the city, electricity wasn't, and crime was rampant here. People from here would just vanish into thin air, and no one would be the wiser. RAMP officers never went through this area in groups less than four, if they ever did.

But Patrick and Vince had to go through to get to the Health Sciences Center. So they walked straight through the dirty, overcrowded slum.

They hadn't walked much more than a few hundred feet into the slum when they heard a scream from a woman, most likely being attacked, killed… or worse. Patrick stopped, and listened, reaching for his hip, where his .44 should have been. But of course it wasn't, damnit. Vince, however, nudged at Patrick's shoulder. When Patrick looked, Vince gave a sad shake of his head. Patrick sighed, but carried on. There was little he could do there, though it did gnaw on him knowing that, all the things he had done, all the troubles he had solved, there was some he just couldn't do a thing about.

Just ahead of them, another man, carrying a rather large object under his arm. He was nervous, looking this way and that, but he only cared about getting away. As Patrick and Vince walked past, suddenly a man began to shout, claiming he had been robbed.

Turning the corner around an old apartment building that had extensions built on either end from rusty sheet metal and old wooden posts out onto the old street, there was suddenly stopped by four people, guns drawn.

"Alright, empty your pockets, and you get to live," one of them said.

"I have nothing of value on me," Patrick replied. Without his gun, his backpack or even his wallet, that was quite true. Well, he did have that tire iron, but anyone could find one of those.

"Then I guess you die," another one, a female who's voice practically dripped in blood.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Vince said, making Patrick look at his older companion from the corner of his eye incredulously.

"Oh, and why would that be?" the woman said.

"You're face to face with the Auxiliary here," Vince said, pointing at Patrick.

"What?" the first man said, looking at Patrick. "You gotta be kidding me. This little runt? I could beat him into a pulp with my bare hands!"

"Oh, you better believe it. He took down three entire raider gangs single handedly and destroyed the Syndicate in Brandon by himself!" Vince said. "He once faced down a deathclaw and killed it. I wouldn't really want to cross him, if I were you."

Patrick would have smiled, as Vince was maybe stretching the stories a bit, but he instead glared at the would-be robbers. "So, which one of you is going to come at me first?" Patrick asked, holding his hands out and motioning them to come at him. "Which one of you want to die tonight?"

All four of them were nervous. No, they were terrified. Well, all but the chick, but even she was a bit hesitant. "Well… uh… fine. But don't ever come into our turf again!" the first man said. The three men beat a hasty retreat. The woman looked at them, scowling.

"You fucking cowards!" she called at their backs. But then she too began to run. "We could have totally taken them on!" she called as they disappeared around a corner.

Patrick and Vince looked at each other after they disappeared into the shadows of the shantytown, and then gave a small laugh.

"A terrifying presence you are," Vince said. "Come on, let's go."

The two managed to get through the rest of the slum town with little issue. It seemed as if the story of the Auxiliary, and the fact that he was here right now, seemed to have scared some of the lowlife criminals and petty thieves from risking their lives tonight. Patrick had no idea. The continued south to their destination, following Isabel Street, then turning right onto Logan Avenue, and then left onto Sherbrook Street.

They finally arrived at the walled grounds of the Health Sciences Center when a small smudge of orange finally began to break on the horizon. It was the largest hospital in Winnipeg, if not Assiniboia, and was where those who were the most ill and injured came. But it was it's role as the main medical research center in this part of the world that gave it it's reputation: it was the conspiracy theories and rumours of what went on in it's Medical Sciences Division, the one that, publically, was focused on curing and preventing diseases, as well as developing new technologies to help those that wouldn't have access to the Health Science Center, such as at Melita. But the stories of those that went past the guarded gate but never returned still cropped up, with the few that do return totally mentally and physically changed, virtually different people…

But Patrick didn't care, at least not right now. With Winnipeg in the middle of a coup d'etat, what may or may not be happening at the Health Sciences Center was the least of anyone's worries.

They walked around until they got to one of the entrances on Sherbrook Street. They were manned by red-uniformed RAMP officers, with assault rifles at the ready. The Health Sciences Center must still be in Assiniboian control then.

"Halt!" a female sergeant barked. "Hands up, and slowly approach."

Patrick and Vince did as they were told.

"Identify yourself," a male lieutenant said.

"People call me the Auxiliary," Patrick said.

That gave both of them pause. "Oh really now? And how can we know for sure?"

Patrick thought about it. He had heard the DBS had begun to embellish his story even before he got to Brandon, so how much would people believe to be true or not?

"Well, I was apparently important enough to be captured by Enclave soldiers posing as RAMP officers and dropped off in the middle of the North End to make sure I wouldn't interfere with their plans," Patrick explained. "But all I know is that I found the Enclave Vault, so it's most likely my fault for this coup even taking place, and I intend to fix it the only way I can."

The sergeant and Lieutenant looked at each other, then shrugged. "Okay, well if that's what you want to do, then Godspeed." the Lieutenant said. "We've managed to keep the Enclave away from the Health Sciences Centre so far, but it doesn't seem to have been a major target for them anyway. But if you go downtown, it's bound to be a totally different story."

"Fair enough. Can I get some supplies then?"

In moments, Patrick was given some fresh stimpaks, as well as a nurse taking a look at his ankle and ensuring it was just sprained and nothing more serious, and a better bandage for his leg (and confirming that the dog that bit him wasn't rabid or diseased), as well as an old hunting rifle kicking around the hospital and ammo, considering that the .44 Patrick had was now gone, and except for the tire iron he found he was otherwise unarmed.

"Most likely won't do any good against power armor," the lieutenant said. "But it should provide some protection if some idiot decides to take potshots at you."

Patrick nodded. Somewhere in the distance there was a muffled explosion, but Patrick couldn't tell where it was from.

"So where do we go from here?" Vince asked.

"I think the RAMP HQ is the best place to look," the lieutenant said. "We haven't heard that is has been taken over yet, and I'd bet us Mounties could defend ourselves there if need be. And, if you really are the Auxiliary, I'm sure you should be able to get access to better weapons there."

Patrick took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright, sounds good. Thanks for the help."

"No worries. Good luck," the sergeant said, and both of them gave an informal salute. Patrick returned it.

Patrick and Vince were there only people on the street right now. The homes that were in a decent shape along the streets in this part of town were inhabited, but Patrick had no idea if it was a family trying to find a quiet, but urban place to live and work or if they were criminals or thieves trying to find a place to lay low, or something in between. There would be sections were half a block would look like a small community lived there, with patched up two story homes, communal vegetable gardens, small workshops and small trading stalls set up, but then nothing but abandoned homes all around them. Occasionally a solitary house would look like someone lived there, but Patrick didn't feel like knocking on the door to see who it was.

Overhead, Enclave Vertibirds buzzed, flying back and forth across the sky, with search lights that pierced the early morning darkness. Every so often, the minigun inside of it would suddenly open up and spit lead down on the streets below. Other guns, sounding like assault rifles and even some laser weapons and other noises that he couldn't place, echoed through the old streets. When Patrick and Vince got to the corner of Sherbrook and Sargent Street across from a partially destroyed True Dominion Storemart, there was another muffled explosion. This time Patrick saw a Vertibird to the east, smoke trailing from an engine, spiral from the sky, and crash somewhere just a street over. A massive fireball filled the sky.

"Holy crap!" Patrick said, blinking at the bright lights. "That was close."

Vince looked over. "Maybe we should go investigate."

"What? Why?" Patrick said. "They are most likely Enclave people there, the ones that tried to kill both of us!"

"Nobody could have survived that," Vince said. "Besides, maybe there would be a weapons with something better than that peashooter in your hand."

Patrick looked at the hunting rifle. It was old, rusty, and hadn't been cared for in years. His grandfather would have had a conniption seeing that gun.

"Yeah, okay. Fair enough. Let's go."

They walked along Sargent Avenue until they got to Furby Street, just a block away. The ruined Vertibird was there, merrily burning away on top of an old swimming pool, the concrete and brick building preventing the fire from the burning aircraft from spreading.

Patrick and Vince cautiously walked down the street. They could see a couple bodies on the broken pavement, both with Enclave uniforms on. They looked like they had been thrown from the Vertibird as it crashed, and there was nothing that could help them now.

As they got closer, something moved in the rubble.

"What… who's there?" Patrick called out. There was only a grunt and a groan.

Patrick turned to Vince. "So no one could survive this, eh?"

"Shut up," Vince said, grumbling.

A large piece of metal and concrete tumbled down from where the movement came, exposing a large, metal chest plate.

Patrick and Vince both raised their gun and pointed it at the moving, groaning thing inside. A metal arm finally managed to push past, and they watched as a man in power armor slowly pushed himself up. He looked toward Patrick and Vince, but the really cracked, but unbroken, orange visors on his helmet must have made it nearly impossible to see anything.

"Who are you?" Patrick shouted.

"I'm Captain Kirk McScott," the muffled, metallic voice said, finally managing to get himself to sit up, and took off his helmet so he could see. "And… and you're that Auxiliary dude, right? I remember when you were in the Vault."

"Yeah…" Patrick said, but didn't lower his gun from the Enclave Soldier. "What are you doing here?"

"I was sent by Secretary Hawthorne to try to talk to… someone. The Prime Minister, the RAMP Commissioner, someone, and try to end this mess."

"What for? If you hadn't noticed, the Enclave is kinda launching a coup right now," Vince said. "I don't think they'd want to listen to you."

"I'm quite aware of that," Captain McScott said, irritated. "But it's only a small faction within the Enclave, those that support the Speaker of the House. Most of the Enclave soldiers sent out to do this were told it's because Assiniboia is trying to destroy us, so they believe it was a pre-emptive strike to ensure our survival. But in reality, it's so the Speaker could overthrow Assiniboia." Captain McScott finally managed to push himself out of the rubble. He walked around a little, and smiled as all the servo motors and joints were still working, allowing the walking mountain of metal to keep walking.

Patrick stared at the man. "That… makes sense. Speaker Graham always seemed a bit, well, ambitious, I guess. And Secretary Hawthorne seemed a lot more reasonable.

"Graham's a madman," the Captain said, shaking his head. "Ever since we opened the Vault, he's been going on more and more about how rebuilding America is now possible. I can't believe I voted for him before, with all this going on."

"So you support Assiniboia?" Patrick asked.

"No, I believe in the Enclave," Captain McScott said. "But, the way I, and Secretary Hawthorne see it, the only way that the Enclave can survive is to work with Assiniboia. We have the tech and the firepower, but you guys have the resources, manpower and know how to survive and prosper in the wasteland. So, in some ways, the Enclave's and Assiniboia's strengths and weaknesses all work together to make us all stronger. I've been working with the Assiniboian army here in Winnipeg for weeks now, and I've come to see just how we could all work together. Secretary Hawthorne and many other members of the scientific and military establishment in the Enclave realize that. It's the damn 'uber patriots' like the Speaker that are going to destroy it all."

Patrick nodded. "That's fairly reasonable. Okay, well we are trying to get to the RAMP HQ, so you can come with us. But you might want to ditch the power armor."

"What? Why?" Captain McScott asked.

"Well, a lot of people in similar power armor have just tried to take over Winnipeg, so I'm pretty sure they would try to shoot you on sight."

The Captain thought for a moment, then sighed. "Yeah, you're right." The back of the power armor opened up, and the Enclave soldier stepped out, dressed up in a perfect Enclave officer uniform. He fastened the latch at the back, then opened up a small door on the side, and pushed his finger into it.

"What are you doing there?" Patrick asked.

"Fingerprint scanner. I can use it to make sure no one else can open it. You could drop a mini nuke on it, but it still won't open except for the person with the fingerprint that locked it." He closed the door. "Alright, where do we go?"

As they walked down Furby and then turned left onto Ellice Avenue, they quickly decided on a course of action. Since the DBS studio had been shut down, even though it was right next to the RAMP HQ, they would have to try to sneak in the back way. Heavy fighting inside the RAMP HQ had been reported, but Captain McScott had no idea how it turned out since he left the Enclave base near the old Airport. As they got closer, the sound of fighting and gunshots, along with the smell of smoke and the sound of crackling flames, proved that it wasn't getting any better.

A couple men in red painted combat armor of the RAMP stood around the Ellice Avenue entrance to the RAMP HQ. When the three people, one of them in an Enclave officer uniform suddenly appeared, they all fired a shot just over their heads. "Don't come any closer, or we will kill you all!"

"Hey hey!" Patrick shouted. "I'm on your side! I have an Enclave prisoner here!"

The firing died away just as quickly as it started when. "Who the hell are you? Why are you out of uniform?"

"I'm the Auxiliary!" Patrick shouted back. "I was never given one."

The two RAMP officers lowered their weapons. "The Commissioner gave orders for you to be brought to her as soon as you show up. Come with me."

They went into the back of the building, called Lockhart Hall back when it was a university, where the sound of gunshots, the cry of injured men, and the stink of blood and burnt flesh immediately impacted all of Patrick's senses.

Instead of being taken upstairs to the Commissioner's office like before, they were taken to a basement, but not before they were challenged with three separate passwords, to get by, which their escort, thankfully, knew. More men in red combat armor were clogging the halls: some were getting weapons, some were getting ammo for weapons they'd already used, some were limping or being led to a makeshift infirmary. But Patrick, Vince, Captain McScott and the RAMP guard eventually got past all of it, and to a room deep in the bowels of the headquarters.

Commissioner Raymond sat at a desk, staring at a map of Winnipeg laid out in front of her. Red pins were scattered all over, but a lot more blue pins, focused on some of the major centres of the city, were on the map. She looked exhausted, disheveled and miserable. Like everyone else down here, she also wore red combat armor, but it had no distinguishing marks to show that the head of the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police was wearing it.

Patrick took a quick glance at the map. He figured out the red was for the RAMP, and the blue for the Enclave. There were a lot places in the city where the red outnumbered the blue, but most of the blue pins would represent a single, power armored Enclave soldier, who could take on entire battalions by himself without breaking a sweat. The blue pins showed that the Enclave had control of DBS and Winnipeg News Network, the Forks, Portage and Main, Union Station and even the Legislative building. The Mint, the University of Manitoba and the Health Sciences Centre were still under Assiniboian control. The RAMP HQ, with the gunfight that was still going on upstairs, was still anybody's game.

"Ma'am?" Patrick asked as he stepped in.

Raymond looked up to Patrick, and managed to force a smile. "Auxiliary. Good to see you're still among the living. How did everything go?"

Patrick took a few moments to explain everything that happened since he last saw the commissioner.

"Well, turns out Kildonan was a ruse to get us to look away from the real enemy, hmm?" He glared at the "captured" Captain McScott when Patrick finished.

"Maybe, but I did find a Brotherhood dog tag on one of the people that started the fight there," Patrick said, then reached into a pocket and pulled out the stamped metal piece, and laid it on the desk.

Commissioner Raymond frowned. "That's… rather disheartening, don't you think?"

"I have no idea. But I do have some good news to bring you about the coup, thanks to Captain McScott here."

Raymond looked to the Enclave soldier. "Oh, that you managed to gut out the heart of one of the few nations that managed to survive the end of the world, which you fucking Americans started?"

Captain McScott growled, but held his peace. "Commissioner, I want to try to broker a peace with you."

The RAMP leader looked for a moment, then burst into laughter. "You really want us to surrender to you? I would never…"

"No, I mean that we end this fighting. The majority of the Enclave has been lied to by Speaker Graham. I'm here on behalf of the Secretary of Defense, Creighton Hawthorne, who wants to end this coup, and restore the status quo." Captain McScott explained what was going on.

Now the Commissioner listened. "So, it's just a small group, eh?"

"It's not much more than a dozen people, most of whom are still stuck in the Vault in North Dakota and have never stepped outside. They are totally disconnected from what is going on, but most of them are in high ranking positions so can issue the orders."

Raymond drummed his fingers on his desk. "Alright then. So how do we end this?"

"That… I don't know," Captain McScott said. "I'm a doctor, not a soldier!"

"What?" Raymond and Patrick both said at the same time.

"I have a PhD in Medicine. I was the only one that Secretary Creighton trusted, or could afford to spare, to get this information to Assiniboia. But my Vertibird was shot down before I could get here."

Raymond sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "So, great. Now I know who started the coup, and that it's a small number of people who started it, but I have no idea how to stop it!"

Patrick thought for a minute, then snapped his fingers. "I know someone who might be able to stop this."

Raymond looked at Patrick. "What? Who?"

"Colonel Granger, the guy in charge of the Enclave military. He's the guy that was with me when I went through North Dakota." he turned to Captain McScott. "What is his role in all this?"

"He… he is leading the coup here in the city. Secretary Hawthorne hasn't been able to get a hold of him to tell him to stand down."

Patrick could feel his heart begin to sink. "He… he is part of the coup?"

"As far as I or Secretary Hawthorne know, yes. He could just be mislead like most of the other soldiers, but considering that he has managed to take over most of the city, I think he has been part of it all along."

Patrick blinked, then sighed, leaning on the desk. "I… I thought he was going to try to get the Enclave and Assiniboia to work together, not to destroy them."

Vince rested his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Sometimes people lie. Lord knows how many times I've been told a fib in all my years."

"Or it's just a mix up, and if we can get ahold of him, we can end the fighting." Captain McScott said.

Patrick glanced up at the map, looking at it. "Maybe… maybe we could stop this, without Colonel Granger." Patrick said.

"What now?" Raymond asked.

"What if I get into the DBS studio and try to get it back for Assiniboia?"

Commissioner Raymond shook her head. "No, that would be nearly suicidal. I know you've dealt with a lot of bad guys the past while Auxiliary, but I think power armored soldiers will be a bit too much for you."

"There is a radio transmitter at the airport base," Captain McScott said. "We've been trying all night to issue commands to the soldiers in the field, but our broadcast has been jammed. The radio techs think it was coming from the DBS studio. So if the Auxiliary could get in, and shut down or revert the broadcast back to DBS, somehow… then maybe, just maybe, we could get the actual message out. But the radio antenna and transmitter can't be damaged."

Commissioner Raymond drummed her fingers on the desk, then shrugged and sighed. "I have no other ideas. And I guess if anyone is going to be able to get in there and shut everything down, it would be you Auxiliary. Good luck."

Patrick, Vince and Captain McScott left the office and into the hallway.

"So, what's your big plan then?" Vince asked.

Patrick looked down at the floor, then at Vince, then to Captain McScott. He looked around the hallway again, but then back to Captain McScott, and he smiled.

"Say, that uniform you're wearing… that's about my size, right?"

Pip-Boy Infotracker Note #5241

To Rebuild America

Issued from the Office of the Speaker of the House of Representatives and Acting President of the United States

Fellow members of the Enclave, the time has come.

Today, we march forth. Today, the reconstruction of the United States begins.

The so-called Dominion of Assiniboia has made a mockery of the memory of America, and it needs to be eliminated. The city of Winnipeg will make a fine point to launch the offensive to reclaim the Midwest and the Great Plains from the traitorous Brotherhood of Steel. From there, it is but a matter of marching to reclaim Washington, DC, Texas, the South and New England. Once everything East of the Mississippi is reclaimed, then the entire west will fall like dominos.

America will be whole again! America will be great again!

The fight to claim Assiniboia will be hard. But with our technology and our superior soldiers, we will not only take them over, but bend the irradiated and mutated people of the surface to our will. They will have no choice but to follow our orders, or die.

And America will be rebuilt, and we will become the world's superpower, able to dominate the whole world like we once did.

Our first step is to destroy Assiniboia. And today we will do that!

God Bless the Enclave! God Bless America


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

"Attention!"

Two power-armoured Enclave soldiers that were casually chatting with each other as they stood guard in front of the Dominion Broadcasting Service building, suddenly snapped to attention and saluted.

Patrick marched right up to them. "Why are you two slacking off? Anyone could have snuck up and disabled your suits without you knowing! Why someone could have just walked through the front door!"

"Sorry sir," they both said. "We won't let it happen again," one of them replied.

"Good!" Patrick said, then saluted himself. "Return to what you were doing." Patrick then marched right past them and through the rotating doors the two soldiers had flanked. Inside, other soldiers, some in power armor and some not, saluted Patrick as he marched in.

Patrick didn't let his face change from the scowl he had plastered on as he marched past. But inside, he was laughing.

Captain McScott's uniform had fit perfectly, and with the cap with the E surrounded by stars, a briefcase in one hand and a plasma pistol on his hip, he looked like an Enclave officer on a mission, and one that brooked no interruption.

"Sergeant!" he barked, making a power armored soldier snap around to look at Patrick.

"Sir!" the sergeant saluted. Unlike most non-commissioned officers, this sergeant looked fairly young.

"What are you doing here?" Patrick asked.

"Our orders are to guard the building from any possible counter attack, sir," the sergeant replied.

"Then what are you doing here in the front office? Some damn Assiniboian could infiltrate the building while you sit on your asses!" Patrick screamed at the soldier. "Go perform a perimeter sweep! Go! Move it!"

"Yes sir!" the sergeant said, but Patrick could sense a bit of resignation in his voice. The sergeant then turned around, barked orders at the ten or so other soldiers, only a couple of whom were in power armor, and they quickly marched out of the building.

At the front desk, a woman in a dress sat, nervously glancing at the yelling Enclave officer all the Enclave soldiers that were quickly marching out as she tried to organize and file papers and click-clacked away on her typewriter. When Patrick came up, she froze and lept out of her chair.

"At ease," Patrick ordered, but the nervous secretary was anything but relaxed. "Can you tell me where the broadcasting room that the Enclave is using is?"

"I-it's on the third floor, 3-8 I believe. There are signs up there that will direct you," she said. A drop of sweat was running from her forehead.

"Thank you," Patrick gruffly answered, then marched to the elevator, past several more Enclave soldiers as they hurriedly equipped themselves and moved out. He noticed a lot of them were wearing gas masks, but Patrick wasn't sure if it was nervousness that Assiniboia had chemical weapons, or if paranoid that the air outside of the Vault was still irradiated and deadly. Either way, they all left, leaving the lowest floor of the building virtually defenseless..

He punched the button to the elevator, and waited for the little arrow in the display above the elevator to move from the number 4 to the M that marked the main floor. The elevator door opened, and Patrick walked in.

Behind Patrick, another Enclave officer, a lieutenant, ran up, stuck his arm in the door as it started to close and walked in, and saluted. Patrick returned the salute. The officer was young, a bit gangly, and had a large friendly smile.

"Good morning Captain," the officer said. Patrick just grunted in reply.

"Going up?" the junior officer said as he pushed the fifth button. Patrick nodded, but inside he was thinking God damnit, the last thing I needed.

"It sure is good that we managed to stop these Assiniboian's from trying to wipe us out, huh?" The lieutenant said, trying to spark some form of conversation as the machinery whirred into motion to lift the elevator up.

Well, not yet, Patrick thought, but he just grunted again.

"It will be a great day when America is reborn, huh?"

Kid, I wish you would shut up. Patrick didn't even grunt this time.

An awkward silence hung in the air as the elevator seemed to take forever to get past the second floor.

"I don't think I've seen you around here before," the Lieutenant asked. "What are you doing here?"

"I just came from the Vault to this god-forsaken Assy place for an important, top-secret mission," Patrick said, growling. "And I'd appreciate it if some little snot-nosed, chatty brat didn't try to interrupt me from getting this done and back to the damn Vault!"

Despite the fact the lieutenant was in power armor that made him at least three feet taller than Patrick, and with the strength of the suit able to snap Patrick in half like a twig, the young officer was trembling in his boots.

The elevator door opened. Patrick marched out. The lieutenant hastily hit the close door button as much as he could to make the door close faster to get away from the angry officer.

Patrick glanced at a sign on the wall, with "broadcasting studio" marked with an arrow pointing to the left. He walked down the hallway.

No power armored soldiers were up here, but Patrick could see where black charred plasma and laser blasts and left marks on the wall, along with blood from the defenders where they were shot of mown down while the Enclave took over the building earlier. A large office area, with a Radioteleprinter on one side, and desks and dividers were news reporters had worked both before and after the War of 2077 took place, was now empty except for a couple Enclave soldiers. They both saluted as Patrick walked past.

He found room 3-8, and smiled as he realized no one was in there. He tried to open the door, only to find it locked.

One of the Enclave soldiers in the other room looked over to the Captain that marched by. "Sir, that room has been locked under order of Major Towes to ensure no one can tamper with the equipment."

Patrick spun around. "Well I countermand that order!" Patrick barked. "I have a very important holotape that needs to be played right now, on order of Speaker Graham! Now, do I have to report you to the head of the Enclave and say that I wasn't able to fulfill his duty because of a god-damned locked door?" Patrick could feel his face turn red in simulated anger.

The soldier took a step back. "I… uh… one moment. I'll get the Major." He scurried off.

Patrick sighed. The holotape was important, yes. But it was filled with a code that was rushed to him by a disguised Enclave radio tech loyal to Secretary Hawthorne from the Airport, who said the holotape, when inserted into the computer terminal that controlled the transmitter, would override the previous instructions, and broadcast a message from Hawthorne telling the troops to stand down. Patrick hoped that was the truth.

"Captain?" A female voice said. Patrick turned around to see a woman in an Enclave uniform, with short brown hair and eyes that were cold and calculating.

"You must be Major Towes," Patrick said. "Well I demand that this door be unlocked and…"

"Where is your identification, Sir?" Major Towes asked. "I was given orders by Colonel Granger to not allow anyone without proper credentials into this room."

Oh shit, Patrick thought. He made as if to reach for his pockets. "Hmm, I must have left them in the Vertibird."

"What Vertibird? We've had no reports of a Vertibird coming from the Vault in the past two hours." She looked over Patrick, trying to place his face, but her eyes rested on the PipBoy on Patrick's arms. "And that's not a Vault issued PipBoy…"

Patrick and Major Towes drew their plasma pistols at the same time. The two Enclave soldiers also aimed their laser rifles at Patrick as well.

"You are under arrest for impersonating an Enclave military officer," Major Towes said, glaring at Patrick.

"And you are mounting an illegal military coup on a sovereign nation that, just a couple weeks ago, signed a peace treaty with the Enclave ending the annexation of Canada," Patrick said.

"Things change," she said, calmly and coolly. "Now, hand over the suitcase, and drop your weapon."

Patrick glared, and tossed the suitcase at Major Towes forcefully, making her stagger backwards. Patrick fired three shots of his plasma pistol, but all of them missed as the major fell down. The two Enclave soldiers also began to fire, but Patrick ducked into an open room across the hall. He jumped behind a metal desk, and as the Enclave soldiers stormed in, he flipped the desk so the top was now shielding him. The metal easily absorbed the red laser bolts that their weapons fired, and Patrick fired a couple times over the top, hoping to keep their heads down. He peaked around the edge of the desk, and took a couple shots at one of the soldiers who was just hiding around the corner and didn't see Patrick. One of them hit the man on his knee, the superheated goo destroying it instantly. The man screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground, clutching at the wound. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, and Patrick's stomach gave a quick heave, but he forced his lunch to stay down.

The other soldier, and now Major Towes, also began to shoot back. Patrick's plasma pistol clicked empty after a couple more missed shots. He groaned, and retreated behind the desk. Captain McScott had given Patrick some energy cells to reload the pistol, so Patrick tried to grab some from a pocket and load it in.

"Fire in the hole!" There was a soft click, then a clink as a grenade bounced off the far wall and landed right beside Patrick. Patrick, in a panic, grabbed the grenade and threw it back.

There was a loud BANG, with dust and cement and wood clattering everywhere. Patrick, his heart racing, his ears ringing, carefully looked over the top of the metal desk, with pieces of shrapnel embedded in the top. When no one tried to shoot at him, he stood up, and climbed over the desk.

All three Enclave soldiers were dead, or at least nearly dead. There was a soft groan in pain from one of them, and when Patrick walked out, Major Towes stared up at him, her eyes fading fast.

"W-why?" She asked, looking at Patrick, unblinking. "Why are you doing this?"

"To bring peace to Assiniboia and the Enclave. I have no quarrel with the Enclave, but you're being mislead by Speaker Graham," Patrick said softly.

"I was never… mislead," she gasped. "Speaker Graham only spoke… the truth." Her head tipped to the side, her eyes rolled back into her head.

Patrick sighed. He hoped that Captain McScott was right, and it was only a few people that believed the Speaker, or this mission was a failure before it started. Major Towes was not a good omen.

Patrick searched through her pockets, grabbing a key, and then the suitcase. One side, the side that must have faced the grenade was shredded to pieces, but the contents inside, the holotape and some papers that hid it, was still intact. Patrick opened the door to room 3-8 and stepped inside.

Patrick flipped a light switch, and the incandescent light bulbs flicked on. The room was a lot larger than it looked from the outside, full of row upon row of reel-to-tape memory banks, and several terminals with their black and green screens. Patrick went up to the first terminal. He pushed the holotape into the slot under the monitor.

The machine suddenly came to life, displaying lines of code, a random jumble of numbers and letters. The memory banks then sprung to life, with a lot of loud whirring, clicking, clacking and other sounds coming from the machines. Patrick didn't understand a single thing that was on the screen, but he still paid attention.

"OVERRIDE INSTALLED," suddenly came onto the screen. "PROCEED WITH OVERRIDE Y/N?" appeared, with a flashing cursor. Patrick hit the Y key.

The machines began to whir again. Patrick quickly turned his PipBoy to DBS, to hear the message that now would be on loop until further notice, if everything went according to plan.

"...Enclave High Command has asked that everyone please stay in-" the previous pre-recorded, looped message suddenly stopped. There was silence for a few moments, then another voice came on. "This is Secretary of Defense Creighton Hawthorne of the Enclave. Last night, against the advice of those like myself that urged moderation, Speaker of the House and Acting President of the United States of America, J. W. Graham, ordered the Enclave military to launch a hostile military takeover of the Dominion of Assiniboia, but made it sound as if Assiniboia had launched the first attack, so this would be in self defense. He was wrong. He lied to all of you. And if the intelligence I've uncovered has any truth to it, Speaker Graham has worked in concert with the Brotherhood of Steel, to divide the attention of Assiniboia to make this coup happen.

"Due to his rash act at possibly restoring American glory, many people; innocent civilians, brave Assiniboian soldiers and police officers, and misguided Enclave soldiers have lost their lives. But I say enough is enough.

"Pursuant to United States Continuity of Government protocols, as mentioned in the US Continuity of Government Act of 2059, and Amendment 25 of the US Constitution, and with the approval of the majority of the cabinet, I hereby declare Acting President Speaker J. W. Graham unfit for office. Secretary of State Elizabeth Morgan is hereby named Acting President of the United States.

"As the incumbent Secretary of Defense, I hereby order all Enclave personal to lay down their arms and either return to the Airport, or surrender to the closest Assiniboian authority, either a member of the Army, the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police, or any government official. Those that do not do so by six o'clock this afternoon will hereby declared traitors of the Enclave, and will be put on trial for treason.

"Furthermore, as the highest ranking member of the Enclave cabinet in Winnipeg at this moment, I ask to meet with Prime Minister Hawkson at the earliest possible moment to bring an end to the fighting here in Winnipeg, and to set the stage for the future course of both Assiniboia and the Enclave.

"From this moment forward, the Enclave will turn over a new leaf. Instead of destruction, we shall build. Instead of underhanded tactics and misery, we will become open, transparent and the beacons of hope in a world that our ancestors left destroyed through war, pollution and anguish. God Bless America, God Bless the Enclave, and God Bless Assiniboia."

The message began to repeat, so Patrick turned off the radio. It would be on loop for a while now, until someone would come along to try to shut it off. But, if Captain McScott was right, then this should be enough to nearly stop the coup cold.

Either way, Patrick grabbed a laser rifle, and all the ammo he could find, and walked to the stairs, and took them down.

At the bottom floor, the Enclave soldiers from earlier where back in the lobby, and looking very confused.

"Is this a trick?" One of the privates that wasn't in power armor asked. "How can we know for sure?"

"That sounded like the Secretary," the sergeant that Patrick barked at earlier said. "But it could be a really good imposter."

"So what do we do now?" The private asked.

"Why not ask the Captain there?" another soldier asked, pointing at Patrick.

Everyone turned to Patrick. "Wait a minute, you were the guy that came in here earlier!"

Patrick nodded, and cleared his throat. "And I say we do what the radio said, at least until we have further orders."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. "But weren't you from the Vault?"

Patrick swallowed. He could feel a cold drop of sweat run down his back. "Well, yeah. Yes. Of course! But you heard the Secretary: we were lied to. And are you going to question the authority of the man who is the head of the Department of Defense?"

"I don't know… maybe we should get back into contact with the Vault…"

"Sergeant!" Patrick barked, snapping back into the character he had before. "Are you questioning a superior's orders?"

"Y-yes… err, no sir!" the sergeant replied.

"Because if you are, then I will have to order a court martial right here and now, and you will face justice for this insubordination!" Patrick barked. "And then you'll be kicked out of the army and sent to clean toilets for the rest of your days! So did you question my orders?"

The sergeant, even though he was in power armor, visibly cringed as Patrick laid into him again. "N-no."

"No what?" Patrick shouted.

"No sir!" the sergeant said, saluting.

"That's exactly what I thought. Now all of you, go. March back to base. I will stay here and turn over the building to Assiniboia, as per our orders." Patrick glanced at the sergeant, who was on the verge of whimpering like a little puppy. All of the soldiers saluted, and left.

"And tell the guards out front to go as well!" Patrick called out as the last soldier, the lieutenant that Patrick had shouted at earlier, scampered out the door.

Soon only Patrick and the secretary were left in the lobby. The secretary had been sitting at her desk, staring as the soldiers left with eyes as large as dinner plates. Patrick walked up to her.

"Can you get a hold of the RAMP?" Patrick asked as softly as he could to try to calm her down."

"Y-yes… sir," she said, her voice breaking as she started to punch some numbers of the phone beside her.

"And tell them that the Auxiliary has secured the DBS," Patrick said. The secretary punched the last number in the code with her finger, then looked up. Patrick winked. She blinked a couple of times.

"I'd have thought the Auxiliary would have been older, if he was a real person," the secretary said. She then began to talk into her phone.

It took about twenty minutes, but soon a mass of people were outside the building, as Patrick could see through the rotating door. Commissioner Raymond, Captain McScott, Vince, and a phalanx of armed RAMP members came in.

"My God Auxiliary," Commissioner Raymond said, amazed as she saw Patrick in the lobby. "I can't believe you actually did it."

"It was hairy there for a moment," Patrick admitted. "But nothing I couldn't handle."

"Now that we have DBS back under our control and the coup has been thrown into confusion, what do we do now?" Commissioner Raymond asked.

Before anyone could answer, a loud whirring sound was heard outside the building, on Portage Avenue. The RAMP officers closest to the door began to shout and rush outside.

"Damnit, the Enclave is back!" one of the shouted. "It's a Vertibird!"

"Don't shoot!" Commissioner Raymond ordered. "Don't shoot unless they do so first!"

Patrick, Vince, Captain McScott and Commissioner Raymond all ran outside in the crush of armed RAMP men. When they got there, two power armored soldiers with miniguns were out, their weapons pointed at the fifteen or so RAMP officers that surrounded them. Everyone's weapons was pointed at one another, but no one was firing. Patrick noticed that they both had red paint smeared on the chest plate opposite to the Enclave symbol.

Commissioner Raymond, with Patrick right behind, managed to push their way to the front. "What the devil is going on here?" he shouted over the propellers as they began to spin down. "I thought you were ordered back to your base."

"They were," a man in a suit inside the vertibird called out as he started to climb out. He leapt to the ground and nearly fell, but one of the power armored men managed to catch him.

"Thanks Robert. I'm not as young a man as I used to be."

"Secretary Hawthorne?" Patrick asked.

The Secretary of Defense turned, and gave a small smile. "Ah, Auxiliary. I'm glad to see you still in one piece." His suit was rumpled, and it looked like he had been wearing it for a few days in a row now, and his hair was a mess. But he still held himself up as well as a politician would be expected to when faced with a crisis.

"Thank you. But, can you tell me what is going on now? How did this coup even start?"

Secretary Hawthorne sighed. "As far as I know, Speaker Graham managed to issue an order to execute a plan, Operation Broken Thunder, that the Enclave Armed Forces had prepared in the past few weeks, in the event that Assiniboia turned out to be less receptive to us than we would have hoped." He turned to Commissioner Raymond. "No offense."

"I understand," Raymond said. "I'm glad to see that there is some semblance of sanity in the Enclave."

"But before I got here, I've received reports that some holdouts are currently holding the Legislative Building, and holding them Prime Minister and government hostage right now," Secretary Hawthorne said, then turning to Patrick. "And Colonel Granger is in charge of them."

"Was Granger a main mover in the coup, or just a soldier following orders?" Patrick asked.

"I couldn't begin to tell you," Hawthorne said with a shrug of his shoulders. "He's ordered the soldiers under his command to prepare for anything, so we can't get close without them shooting at us. Same with the RAMP and the Assiniboian Army."

Patrick sighed. Nothing ever seemed to work out.

"There is another way," Commissioner Raymond said, getting Patrick's and Secretary Hawthorne's attention. "There is a series of tunnels under the city, built centuries ago to pump heat through the city from a central heat station. Other tunnels were dug over the years to allow people to move between buildings in cold weather, and even more when the Resistance was operating after the American annexation. Those tunnels are still there, and have been strengthened over the years to be used by the government in the event they had to evacuate the Legislative Building or anything else in downtown Winnipeg. But, they can also be used to infiltrate the building."

"That's remarkably handy," Vince said. "What do they call that in stories… Does Ex Machines? I don't know. But why hadn't you done it already?"

"We were pretty busy trying to get the Enclave out of the RAMP HQ, and hold our ground around the city to do so," Commissioner Raymond snapped. She took a deep breath. "But now we can. Auxiliary, I want you to go in and lead this. You know Colonel Granger, so you can try to talk to him about this." Secretary Hawthorne nodded in agreement.

Patrick took a deep breath. "Well, into the flames again then."

Under the Fort Garry Hotel, where even 300 some years after it was built was still seen as the premier establishment for the rich and powerful to visit and live, was one of the entrances to the tunnels, in a deep basement amongst crates and freezers of food and dinnerware. Patrick, with his newly acquired laser rifle and a .44 magnum - not the one he lost when the Enclave had dumped him off in the North End - on his hip again, and Vince and Big Bertha in hand, were ready to go in with three RAMP Dragoons, in their red combat armor and brown Stetsons, assault rifles, grenades and a dozen other weapons.

A Dragoon Captain, one of them trained in the knowledge of the tunnels, had a key to unlock the massive, five inch thick steel door that lead to the tunnels. He unlocked it, and swung it open with metal-grinding-on-metal screeching.

"Alright, lights on, and follow me," the Captain said.

The two other dragoons flipped on a special battery operated flashlights that were attached on their shoulders to let them see. Patrick flipped the light on his PipBoy.

The first step into the tunnel was met with a splash. A good inch or two of water was everywhere, and quickly soaked Patrick's feet. The smell, wet and moldy and almost like someone had died down here, washed over Patrick and nearly made him vomit. One of the Dragoons did.

"Alright, we just have to follow this straight," their guide said as soon as everyone was in and he pulled the door closed and locked it. "Just stay close. And be quiet, we might alert them upstairs, or spook something down here."

"What would be down here?" Patrick whispered as they walked along.

"Rad gophers, mole rats, regular rats, and who knows what else. I've heard that even feral ghouls were down here at some point, but I haven't seen them myself," the dragoon whispered back.

The walls here were mostly bare dirt, and was surprisingly short and narrow but more or less went straight and level. Rusty pipes were attached to the wall, and Patrick could hear a vibrating clank or scurrying sound inside them. Patrick aimed his gun at wherever he heard a sound. Looking behind him at the dark, shadowy figure of Vince who didn't have any light, he was doing the same thing.

A loud splash ahead made everyone look, with four lights shining on the corridor. A small ripple was in the water from a large chunk of dirt that fell from the ceiling. Everybody breathed a sigh of relief at the same time.

They continued walking along the tunnel, when it suddenly changed from bare dirt to concrete and steel. It wasn't in much better shape, and the water and smell was still there, but it gave the sense that someone had been here before.

"Alright, we should at the old power station now," the captain whispered to everyone. "Not much longer until we get to the Legislative building."

They took a turn to the left after a bit longer, and began to walk down the tunnels again.

The darkness and silence, interrupted only by the splash of boots in stale water and the sway of artificial light, was starting to play tricks on Patrick. Anything that was even slightly out of place in the cold and dark made Patrick more tense and paranoid, and ready to open fire.

At last they came upon another metal door. The captain that lead them here held up a hand, and everyone else stopped, and waited as he fiddled for the key for the lock.

There was a loud splash behind Patrick, followed by the hurried footsteps and splashes of dozens of small feet.

"What was that?" Patrick said, spinning around. His light came face to face with a horde of radgophers. They snarled and growled, clawing their way to the humans that had disturbed their home. The angry, hungry eyes had found a meal.

Vince was the first to open fire, Big Bertha taking down a radgopher, then slipped forward to get into another firing position. The sound was loud, nearly deafening, and the bright flash of the gun made Patrick stumble when he tried to back up, disoriented by the sudden bright light. Patrick opened fire with his .44, followed a moment later by the other RAMP Dragoons. Some of the shots hit radgophers, more missed, but the rodents kept coming.

"Shit!" The captain shouted over the gunfire. "The Enclave will no doubt hear all this gunfire. It's not going to go well up there."

Patrick loaded his .44 Magnum. "We'll have to deal with that later. Because I'd rather not be gnawed to death."

Three radgophers managed to get to the Dragoon in the rear, and the Dragoon cried out as the vicious creatures bit and clawed at his legs. He fell down into the water, and soon had the creatures crawling all over him, his head being forced into the stagnant water. He thrashed and flailed, but he couldn't keep them off. He lost his gun, he grew weaker and weaker as he struggled to hold his breath, but before Patrick or anyone else could reach him, the body went limp in the water. Many of the radgophers, now that they were on the verge of a big meal, began to tear him apart, trying to tear apart the combat armor to reach the delicious meal.

"Auxiliary! You and your friend, get in!" the captain shouted, finally managing to open the door. "We'll hold these bastards off."

Patrick turned to see the metal door open. He grabbed Vince's shoulder, sending the last bullet he fired up into the cracked cement ceiling. But the two ran through the metal door, splashing stagnant water along with them. When they were through, the Captain gave Patrick a salute, and slammed the door shut behind him with a loud, thunderous boom, and then locking it again from the inside.

Patrick and Vince breathed heavily, watching the door. They could hear the gunshots as the last two Dragoons did their best to fight off the radgophers.

But closer to Patrick and Vince, the sound of running boots, along with the metal clank of power armor, and the shouts of soldiers and cocking guns told them that they jumped out of the frying pan, and into the fire. Enclave soldiers, descending a spiral staircase in one corner, flooded the room and surrounded Patrick and Vince.

"Drop your weapons!" an officer shouted. "We have you outnumbered and surrounded!"

Patrick sighed, and set the gun down. Vince followed behind him. Patrick glanced over to Vince, who shrugged his shoulders.

The officer waved them up the stairs, and flanked by Enclave soldiers, Patrick and Vince were lead up the stairs and into the Legislative Building itself.

"You had to come to the Legislative Building for that hearing, right?" Vince asked.

Patrick blinked. He nearly forgot about that.

"Well, I think this hearing it going to be a lot more important, and more dangerous, than anything any politician could come up with," Vince said with a sardonic smile.

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #918

A Tour of the Assiniboian Legislative Building, c. 2210

The seat of power of the Dominion is the Legislative Building, one of the most beautiful structures still standing in Winnipeg. The Tyndall Limestone edifice, copper dome and "Golden Boy" statue at the top have been a recognizable feature of the old province of Manitoba before the US Annexation, and now stands as a symbol of the rebuilding of Canada and North America after the War of 2077

First started in 1913, the Legislature wasn't completed until 1920, hampered by both the First World War and the contractor siphoning materials from the site for his own personal use. With over 250,000 square feet of space inside, and standing over 240 feet tall, it dominated the skyline of Winnipeg for decades until modern skyscrapers were built in the downtown core.

In the center of the building, up a flight of stairs flanked by two bronze Bison, is the Legislative chamber. The walnut desks used by the Prime Minister, his cabinet, and all the other Members of Parliament elected to serve are still the original desks, despite almost 300 years of constant use. Unlike other Westminster parliamentary systems, such as those used before the War of 2077 in Ottawa, London and Australia, the desks are arranged in a horseshoe shape instead of directly facing each other, and the colour blue is used for curtains, carpet and other decoration unlike other parliaments use of green. There are many other hidden secrets within the building, including the ominously named "Pool of the Black Star," where one could hear conversation from anywhere else in the building due to it's construction.

The Prime Minister of Assiniboia, his cabinet, the Leader of the Opposition, members of the Civil Service and other government officials have their offices within the Legislative assembly. The Governor-General, whose residence is right next door to the building, also has a stately room used in ceremonies and diplomatic meetings. The building is well protected by the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police: no weapons are allowed in the building itself, and all the politicians are flanked by specially chosen red-coated police officers at all times.

Around the exterior, many statues, both old and new, dot the grounds, as well as beautiful flower gardens and pathways leading right to the Assiniboine River. The landscaped park around the Legislative Building is a popular spot for Winnipeg residents to meet, picnic, hold rally's or celebrate their nation. And so long as the flag of Assiniboia continues to fly over the entrances, our nation shall endure.

So if you are in Winnipeg, come for a guided tour of the Assiniboian Legislative Assembly! Monday to Friday, 10 am to 4 pm every hour.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

The stone walls of the Legislative Building had been holding up exceptionally well in the aftermath of the end of civilization. There might be some cracks and even crumbling in some spots, but fresh coats of white paint in the hallways, electric lights through many spots, and a few torches where they stopped working showed the fact that the massive building had made it this long without a major shift in appearance, on either the exterior or the interior, made the building a landmark in Assiniboia.

The fact that it was occupied by hostile Enclave troops wasn't any great concern to the building, which had seen dictators, patriots, revolution, war, civil war, and nuclear war and lasted through all of it made it a symbol to last the test of time.

But now sandbags and hastily constructed barricades of desks and filing cabinets that were erected through the cavernous hallways, with nervous Enclave soldiers with their laser rifles perched behind them. Patrick and Vince, along with the soldiers that captured them, went by several barricades, then backtracked when the officer got lost in the maze of hallways, until they finally got to the Legislative Chamber, perched behind the Grand Staircase and the massive open hall under the dome of the building.

The room was a circle, with blue carpets and sixty or seventy old wooden desks and chairs in a horseshoe shape that were put in place in 1919 when the building was opened, all on three levels that went down into a bowl at the bottom, where a long table with several chairs and piles of papers, books and binders sat. Another, larger chair sat overlooking it all on a raised platform on the open end of the horseshoe. Fifteen men and six women, with six more Enclave soldiers hovered over them at all times, sat near the throne. Patrick recognized one of them as Prime Minister Richard Hawkson, who looked up, and gave a weary smile when he saw Patrick, as if he knew that Patrick was there to save him. Of course, the smile fell when he realized that Patrick was a prisoner, like he was. He glared at the closest Enclave soldier, hoping he'd drop dead from the result of his thoughts of hatred.

Colonel Granger, in his suit of power armor and standing over the hostages, turned away from them when the door on the far end of the room opened and Patrick and Vince came in. The man in charge of the Enclave's military was tired, exhausted, and confused, but he blinked, his face showing his surprise. He stomped over to Patrick and Vince.

"What the hell are you doing here Patrick?" He demanded. "And who's he?" He said, pointing to Vince.

"This is my companion, Vince. I met him at Grand Forks after you left," Patrick said. "And I'm here to stop this coup."

Colonel Granger growled. "This isn't a coup. This is self-preservation, to make sure the Enclave survives."

"That's only what Speaker Graham wants you to think," Patrick said. "Secretary Hawthorne…"

"Who did you say?" Colonel Granger interrupted.

"Secretary of Defense Creighton Hawthorne," Patrick replied, confused. "You know, the man that's the civilian in charge of the Enclave army?"

Granger paused. "I was told he was dead, executed by Assiniboia as a first step to destroying the Enclave. I thought the radio message was just Assiniboia trying to break us up, using someone that sounded like him."

Patrick shook his head. "Nope, he's very much alive. I just saw him about an hour ago. And who told you?"

"I had it on the highest, most trustworthy authority! It was... Speaker... Graham..." Colonel Granger said, his voice having become quiet, then the growled in anger. "That bastard! He lied to me! To the entire Enclave!" Soldiers all around looked over to the Colonel in surprise.

Patrick wanted to smile as he realized that Colonel Granger realized he had been tricked. "So… will you stop the coup then?"

Colonel Granger turned around to Patrick. "I… I can't."

"Why not?" Vince asked. "After all, if the orders were given on bad faith, wouldn't they be illegal?"

"That's not how the Enclave works," Granger told Vince. "Because no matter the reason, orders are still orders. I was ordered to overthrow the Assiniboian government, and I will do that." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Patrick." Colonel Granger began to turn around.

"What do you mean, orders are orders? What about the time in Minot? Or when we dealt with the super mutants? You disobeyed the orders then, so why are you following them now?" Patrick asked.

"Because I have to," Colonel Granger said. "I… I had to. Speaker Graham found out about how we didn't kill the ghouls in Minot, or for how we failed to convince Vault 53 to join the Enclave. He has given me one more chance to prove my loyalty to the Enclave - to him. He would have kicked me out of my post if I refused to do this. Or thrown into the Vault reactor. Dropped from a Vertibird. Or just shot. And that someone else would have gone in guns blazing, drops bombs and destroying everything." Granger turned to Patrick. "I'm trying to prevent unnecessary collateral damage, which some soldiers in the Enclave don't care about."

"Hundreds of people have died already," Vince barked. "And hundreds more will die before that madman in the Enclave Vault has his way!"

"And you know that he will do that. No amount of reasonableness will stop him." Patrick's fist was clenched tight as he listened to the man that he thought was a reasonable, pragmatic soldier spewing random words that might make sense to him.

"I'm sorry," Colonel Granger said, looking away. "Take them away," he ordered the guards turning around.

One guard began to grab Patrick's arm and lead him away.

"And what happens next?" Patrick shouted, making Colonel Granger stop, and turn around.

"What?"

"What happens after the Enclave takes over Winnipeg, overthrows the Dominion of Assiniboia?" Patrick asked.

"Well, my guess is we declare the United States of America again," Colonel Granger said. "Should be easy enough, move the entire Enclave Army here, do away with the old government, and set up shop. After all, the Enclave has the best trained and best equipped soldiers in the Wasteland. So, holding down Winnipeg shouldn't be a problem. Nothing that 1,000 soldiers, about a quarter of whom are in power armor, couldn't handle. Even with all the mutiniers, which is… a hundred, two hundred people tops? After all, the population of Assiniboia is about… I don't know..."

"Half a million people," Prime Minister Hawkson said from the corner of the room.

"Half a million people," Colonel Granger repeated. "We could easily garrison the main towns across the country with a squad each, and maintain the railways, and maintain peace… and… order…" Colonel Granger's voice trailed off as realization stepped in as the numbers started clicking in his head. "Oh crap."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"This… this would never work. It's mathmatically impossible. We'd be overstretched, open to resistance movements. Even a general strike would cripple the Enclave's abilities if Winnipeg shuts down. Speaker Graham would never agree to arming any Assiniboian to help us either, so that would stretch us further. An uprising in one area could be put down, but two? More? And with the Brotherhood of Steel to the south…"

Patrick wiggled his way out of the grasp of the soldiers holding him, who were coming to the same realization as their commander. "Colonel, let me ask then: Can the Enclave take over Assiniboia, and then hold it?"

"N-no," Colonel Granger whispered. "No, we can't."

"Then I think you know what you need to do. If you want to save your fellow soldiers. Your family. The Enclave as a whole."

Colonel Granger took a couple deep breaths, exhaling as calmly as he could, then stood up. "Okay. Listen up everyone," Colonel Granger ordered, getting the soldiers and hostages attention. "It's become clear that all of us have been mislead by an illegal, impossible and self-destructive order. If we carry throw, and try to do the impossible, it will undoubtedly destroy the Enclave." There was a lot of murmurs and talking, with one person stringing a row of profanities in exasperation and confusion, as Colonel Granger spoke. "Now, as your commanding officer, I'm going to tell you what we are going to do. We are going to calmly and quietly leave. We will ask the Auxiliary here to go out first and to let the Assiniboian Army and the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police know that we are ending the coup, along with our hostages. Then we will do as we are ordered by Secretary of Defense Hawthorne. Understood?"

Only a few people said anything, most just reluctantly nodded, others were silent.

"Okay, and get everyone else out of the building and assembled in the Grand Staircase, and we march out when we get the signal. Now move out!"

Colonel Granger turned to Patrick, his face still tense and tired, but with a bit of relief. "Thank you, Patrick."

"I did this for my country, not the Enclave," Patrick said.

"I know, but it just happened to line up this time." Colonel Granger looked up and around as the soldiers began to gather their weapons and summon the other soldiers, others already marching out. "Maybe it will in the future as well?" He then walked past, barking more orders.

Patrick, flanked by Vince and the politicians and staffers that had been held hostage, exited the front doors of the Legislative Building and walked down the steps. Prime Minister Richard Hawkson walked beside him, shuffling along like a man who didn't expect to survive.

"I was hoping that I would get the chance to meet you, but on better circumstances than this," the Prime Minister said, looking down Memorial Boulevard, past the statue of Queen Victoria, the War Memorial, the War of 2077 Monument, and to the city beyond. He smiled, as if seeing it all for the first time.

The Prime Minister continued talking about something, but Patrick only listened with half an ear. The Prime Minister had been talking ever since they left the Legislative Chamber, and, frankly, it was starting to get on his nerves. He had a high pitched voice that, when he got excited, would grate on the ears. Of course, he couldn't tell the leader of his country to shut up, so he just let him ramble on. Hawkson wasn't known for his oratorical skills: he usually left that to his ministers. But he has a sharp mind, a master at Realpolitik that was Assiniboia. You needed that if you wanted to the leader of Assiniboia, as it was more a analytical cage match than a popularity contest.

They got to the barricade that had been put across Memorial Avenue. Several soldiers and RAMP officers on sleipnir's were standing by, the eight legged beasts shuffling on their feet, sensing excitement in the air.

"Hey, all of you… what are you…?" One of the soldiers manning the barricades barked, before the he saw the Prime Minister. "Oh, Mr. Prime Minister," the soldier, and all the other's saluted as they realized they were talking to the leader of Assiniboia.

Hawkson saluted back, though his wasn't the machined precision of the soldiers. "At ease. I need to talk to Commissioner Raymond as soon as possible," the Prime Minister ordered one of the RAMP officers.

"What for, sir?" He replied.

"The Enclave soldiers inside are willing to surrender. I need to talk with him about it," the Prime Minister said.

That got everyone's attention. The Sleipnir rider turned his mount around and bolted off to the north up Memorial Avenue. Within half an hour, Commissioner Raymond, with several RAMP officers on Sleipnir back, arrived.

"Mr. Prime Minister," Commissioner Raymond said, saluting Hawkson, before nodded to Patrick. "Auxiliary. What do you need, sir?"

Patrick and the Prime Minister explained everything that had happened. Commissioner Raymond grinned when she heard of Patrick's escapade.

"I'm sure it's not the outcome you had in mind when you infiltrated the building, Auxiliary, but I knew you were the best person to send in to try to talk them out."

The Prime Minister nodded. "Yes. But now the question is: what do we do with them?"

"Them?" Patrick asked.

"The Enclave," the Prime Minister said.

"What? Didn't they just say they would surrender and give up?" Commissioner Raymond asked.

"They may say that, yes. But the fact that the Enclave managed to take over most of Winnipeg and nearly destroyed the Dominion shows that they are not to be trusted," Prime Minister Hawkson said. "How long will it take for them to think of some other idea to try to overthrow us? To destroy Assiniboia? Therefore, we should pull out this weed, right now, before it has a chance to grow even bigger."

Partick stared at the Prime Minister. "You are not actually saying…"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," the Prime Minister said. "I'm giving the Enclave a choice: they either pack up their Vertibirds and go south, deep, deep south, way into the Wasteland, or we will destroy them."

Commissioner Raymond, Vince, and Patrick were both dumbfounded. "What?" the head of the RAMP exclaimed.

"It wasn't the whole Enclave that did this," Patrick said. "You even heard Colonel Granger say that he was mislead."

"If an entire military can be that easily mislead by fanatics, then they have no place in Assiniboia." The Prime Minister's voice was starting to get a bit high pitched. "The Assiniboian Government allowed them to come to Winnipeg on the promise that they wouldn't undermine the Dominion. And what the hell did they just do?"

"Mr. Prime Minister…" Patrick started.

Hawkson whipped his head to face Patrick. "You stay out of this. You aren't even a full member of the RAMP, you're just some poor farming kid that got swept up into the grand scheme of things. I'm the bloody leader of this country, so what I say goes!" The Prime Minister was nearly yelling by now. He stopped, and took a deep breath. "Sorry for snapping like that, but I have to do what I believe is best for Assiniboia. You've had to make that choice a lot, haven't you, Auxiliary?"

Patrick swallowed. "Yes sir."

"Well I have to make many more of those choices than you do, and I know better than anyone else in this country what we are facing," the Prime Minister continued. "The Brotherhood of Steel is on the verge of going to war with us, and they are a much bigger threat to us than some punks in power armor will ever be. This sideshow with the Enclave has done nothing but weaken us in their eyes. After all, what looks worse than seeing a country facing invasion in their own capital city? For all I know, this was all part of the Brotherhood's plan, to use the Enclave as a front to weaken us. You've uncovered many Brotherhood operations to undermine our strength to know that. So I say it's time we cut out this cancer, and say good riddance."

Patrick braced himself against this assault, but his mind began to work, and he took a breath. "Mr. Prime Minister, with all due respect, I think this could be a massive mistake."

"A mistake? How?"

Patrick straightened his shoulders. "Sir, I think if you order the Enclave exiled, it could be a huge blow to Assiniboia. First: they have advanced technology, including flying vehicles and power armor. I'm pretty certain that there are few places in the whole world that would have both. Second: if we exile them, won't they get angry at us, and ally with the Brotherhood? Even if they don't ally with them now, that will be another group, near the districts in North Dakota that have no reason to like us, that will eventually want to see us destroyed. And remember that the Enclave claims to be the true representative of the old United States, so people in North Dakota may try to follow them, causing even more troubles for us in an area that we all know is a powder keg. All we would be doing is making more enemies when you yourself said we don't need more distractions or sideshows. Third: they have hundreds of well trained, well equipped, power armored soldiers. You saw the damage they did here in Winnipeg. What would they be like tearing through Brotherhood Conscripts?"

"The Auxiliary has a good point," Commissioner Raymond said. "The Army is overstretched, the RAMP even worse than that, and we are most likely outgunned down south by at least three to one. Any help we can get to fight the Brotherhood would be greatly appreciated.

Prime Minister Hawkson stared at Patrick, then to Commissioner Raymond, then back to Patrick. He wasn't happy at being countermanded by the head of the Royal Assiniboia Mounted Police and one of the biggest heroes in Assiniboia, but he eventually nodded.

"Fine," the Prime Minister said, his high pitched voice making the one word sound like a squeak from a radgopher. "When the war with the Brotherhood is dealt with, then we will decide on what to do with the Enclave." The Prime Minister didn't stomp away, but he clearly wasn't happy.

Patrick turned to Commissioner Raymond, who shrugged. "Can't do anything about that." She then gestured to the Legislative Building. "So, you going to tell them the good news?"

Patrick gave a nod and a small smile. "Might as well." he took a few steps before he turned around. "By the way: how is Demon?"

Commissioner Raymond thought for a moment. "Oh! Your Sleipnir, right?" Patrick nodded. "I'll send someone to get him for you." He turned to Vince. "And one for your friend here too." She climbed up onto her Sleipnir and turned it around, flanked by the other two mounted, red combat armor clad RAMP officers.

"After all," Patrick said, "What is a member of the RAMP without a mount, eh?"

Colonel Granger and the Enclave soldiers evacuated the Legislative Building with a minimum of fuss. Five vertibirds, their propellers still whirring to create a massive dust cloud that blew up flowers and shrubs meticulously planted in a garden near the building loaded all the Enclave soldiers on, before they lifted off and headed to the northwest to the airport.

Another good thing that Patrick found out was that the hearing he was supposed to have in front of the Defense Committee, since most of the Members of Parliament that were on it had fled when the Enclave arrived, had been canceled in light of recent events. Patrick had no problem with that outcome at all.

Patrick watched the Enclave Vertibirds fly off. When they were out of sight, he turned around and walked up Memorial Avenue toward the RAMP HQ, Vince at his side.

When he got there, he went to the stables that was in the old bus station. Dozens of RAMP officers and stable hands worked on their Sleipnir's, feeding and grooming them. Some of the officers looked tired and dirty, with one or two even bandaged up from the fighting in Winnipeg earlier, but they were taking care of their mounts, brushing their fur and manes, feeding and watering them in their stalls. While Sleipnir's were rugged animals, and were usually quite content if they had food and water, it was part of the code of riding a sleipnir with the RAMP that you always looked after the animal first, and make sure they were comfortable and clean, then you took care of your own needs.

The master of the stables, a rugged old man with a scar cutting through his beard and a slight limp came up to Patrick. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah. I was told that the RAMP would have a Sleipnir for Vince here."

The master of the stables grabbed a clipboard and looked at the papers, mumbling to himself. "You the Auxiliary?"

"Yes, sir," Patrick replied.

He looked down the list. "Okay, yep. I have a mare, Treherne, that I can spare," he said. "She's quiet, calm, and perfect for a first time rider."

"Sounds good to me," Vince said. "I've never been on one of these massive spider things before," he said.

"They ain't spiders!" the master of the stables barked. "They are the most powerful and majestic animals in the world, you got that?"

Patrick nearly recoiled in shock as he was yelled at, but Vince stood his ground. "I'm just saying."

The master grumbled, but flagged down a stable hand to take Vince to his new mount.

"And apparently my Sleipnir is here, apparently. Demon?" Patrick asked the man when he was done dealing with Vince.

"Oh. Him," the master said, not even consulting his clipboard. "He's done nothing but give us trouble since he got here. Hell, even before he got here, he apparently went berserk on the train. Broke the arm of an officer that brought him from the station, and nearly killed a stable hand that tried to currycomb him. I'll be glad when the bastard's gone. He's never been properly broken, and is a danger to himself and whoever else will get near him!"

"He hates strangers," Patrick said, in way of apologizing and explanation. But the master of the stables was already walking away, so Patrick hurried to catch up to him.

Demon had been put in a stall far away from the other Sleipnir's. He snorted, pawing his hooves on the ground impatiently. All the other stable hands and officers stayed far away from Demon. Even the master of the stables, hung back, and let Patrick go up to the black Sleipnir. Demon looked to see Patrick, and calmed down a lot, but he was clearly impatient, though he seemed to maybe be a bit fatter after several weeks of doing little but eating.

"Well buddy, you ready to get back on the road?" Patrick asked, stroking the thick neck of his beast. Demon twisted his ears to face Patrick when he spoke, then snorted after he finished talking. That was going to be about as much of an answer he was going to get from his Sleipnir.

"Well I'll be damned," the master of the stables said. "You seem to have a way with Sleipnir's there, Auxiliary."

"No, just my own."

Patrick took care of Demon as best as he could. He rarely used a currycomb on Demon, as he didn't like it, but he did brush him down as best as he could. As he was taking care of Demon, somebody came up behind him.

"Auxiliary. Have you got a moment?"

Patrick looked over his shoulder to see Secretary Creighton Hawthorne standing there. He looked exhausted, with dark bags under his eyes.

Patrick set down the brush. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you. Commissioner Raymond told me where I could find you, because this is important."

Patrick brushed the dust and dirt off his hands. "Okay, what's up?"

The Enclave politician shuffled a bit. "I was talking with the Commissioner, and he told me what happened, and how the Prime Minister wanted to exile us from Assiniboia," he said. "I just wanted to say thank you for standing up for us like that."

"Of course. It's Speaker Graham and his followers that caused this mess, not the Enclave as a whole," Patrick said. "You and Colonel Granger at least have an idea of what is going on here, while Graham doesn't."

"Yes," Speaker Graham said. "However, Graham is, and can still be a major threat to Assinoiba, and the rest of the wasteland. He's in control of the Vault, with all the computers, manufacturing facilities and group of fanatic diehards that listen to him, and only him. He may have had a setback here, but that's all it is: a setback. In a few months, a few years, he could try to do this again."

"How? Isn't most of the army loyal to Granger and you?"

"As of now, yes. But we need to remove Graham from the equation. We need to mount an attack on the Vault, capture or kill the Speaker, and try to salvage what we can so that we, the Enclave, can help Assiniboia." The Secretary took a deep breath. "I've been talking with the current acting president, Elizabeth, and she agreed that the Enclave can't survive on it's own in the near future. You know as well as I that we don't have the manpower to go and build our own civilization, especially in the face of both Assiniboia and the Brotherhood, so the best we can do for now is to try to help the people we think are the best. And right now, that answer is Assiniboia."

"Have you talked to the Prime Minister about it?"

"No, not yet," Secretary Hawthorne said. "And I don't want to until we can prove to him that we will not be a threat to him. The best way to do that, in my opinion, is to destroy Graham's cliche, and present the technology we have to Assiniboia." Secretary Graham smiled. "Plus, we have a few weapons that I'm sure can help against the Brotherhood."

"So, why are you talking to me then?" Patrick asked.

"Because I would like you to help me, if you want. If you don't, if you want to be done with me, the Enclave and everything, just say so. But with your help, I know we will have a better chance."

"Why me? I'm only one man," Patrick said.

"One man that had single handedly stopped the Coup dead, along with fighting off Brotherhood assassins after surviving a train crash, wiped out raider bands, destroyed the Syndicate in Brandon… need I go on?" Secretary Hawthorne asked. "You are worth an entire regiment of soldiers, and that's not being facetious. You also know when the fight, when to try to talk, and when something has to be dropped. I know you may not like it, but you know your limits. You know exactly what needs to be done, and how to do it."

Patrick shuffled a bit as Hawthorne pointed out his strengths and weaknesses. He knew them, subconsciously, but he never put it into words. He still didn't like it when people talked about him, even to his face. Praise felt like it was undeserved: criticism seemed like he was a failure.

"And all that, all those battles, all those heroics and bravery… because of your brother," Secretary Hawthorne said.

Patrick froze, and stared at Hawthorne. "How did you…"

"Commissioner Raymond told me," Hawthorne said. "And listen: if you help me here, I will do everything in my power to help you rescue your brother. You know he's with the Brotherhood, right? Well, you've done so much for everyone else in Assiniboia. I think it's time you got a bit of repayment back. Vertibirds? Soldiers? The best weapons in the world? All will be yours."

Patrick's eyes went wide. Zach… All this time he had been fighting, to try to get his brother, and told time and time again that he was missing, gone, out of reach, or that it was impossible to rescue him.

But if he had well trained, well equipped, power armored soldiers to help...

"Okay, I'll do it."

Hawthorne smiled.

"But what will we be facing?" Patrick asked. "I don't want to walk into this without any knowledge at all.

"Robots, power armor, heavy turrets. It won't be easy, I'll give you that," Secretary Hawthorne said. "I was in charge of setting up the defenses in the Vault, so I know it will be tough."

"I think I'm going to need more than a .44 and assault rifle then," Patrick said.

Secretary Hawthorne grinned again. "And I know exactly what to give you to equal the odds."

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #0000

CONFIDENTIAL: FOR PRIME MINISTERS EYES ONLY: July 8, 2218

Assiniboian Army Intelligence has picked up radio transmissions between the Brotherhood of Steel Base #9 east of Fargo and Grand Forks and the Enclave Vault. Code breakers have been working on trying to crack the code since we discovered the transmissions. However, it does not correlate at all with any of the Brotherhood codes we know, so we must assume it's an Enclave code, which we've had no experience in hacking or breaking.

This presents a dangerous situation. If both the Enclave and the Brotherhood are working together, it could result in a massive disruption of the capabilities of the Assiniboian Army. Both factions have air power, the Enclave and their Vertibirds, and the Brotherhood and their airships. This would give the enemy total air superiority, as we have no air force, and only a few weapons capable of being used in an anti-air role. This is not to even touch on the fact that both factions have power armor, energy guns, and heavy weapons that outclass our own.

It is imperative that the Enclave continue to work with us, or that they be destroyed. The later option will be incredibly difficult, but the General Staff is secretly working on such a plan right now. I recommend diplomacy, promise the Enclave whatever they want, to ensure we maintain our strength for the fight with the Brotherhood.

-Minister of Defense.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

Patrick looked at the new gun that he had been given by an Enclave scientist, just a couple hours before he is supposed to climb up onto the UAR train that was heading south to Brahmin Crossing. It was something they had been working on for years in the Vault, but unable to finish as they needed some materials that they didn't have access to underground. Patrick had no idea what they were, only that they got them somehow.

But now they gave the only prototype of Project E-87 to Patrick. A "field test," the nervous scientist said, though Patrick was sure the scientist didn't want his baby to go out into the field yet. He got a few shots in at a target, which was a man standing in an old suit of T-45d power armor, one that would have been used by the US Army when they took over Canada. It was actually one used by a soldier in the US Army 140 years before, and refurbished by the Enclave.

"Are you sure about this?" Patrick asked the soldier who was in the power armor.

"Of course! Project E-87 is designed to be non lethal to infantry. It's electronics that would be damaged by it, such as in power armor," the soldier said, pounding his chest. "The metal won't be affected, but all the electrical stuff will. So I should be fine." The soldier was very confident.

"Why not just have me fire at the power armor without you in it?" Vince, standing beside Patrick, asked.

"Because we need to see how it reacts when someone is wearing it and using it," the soldier replied. "Anyway, just shoot the damn thing already!"

Patrick shrugged, and walked to the end of the test range. Project-87 looked like a laser rifle, just with a lot more doohickeys and things on it, and even used the same ammo as one. However, instead of shooting one charge from the microfusion cell that a laser rifle would normally have done, it fires the entire force of the special battery into an electromagnetic pulse, which, the scientist said, would disable electronics, but not injure humans.

Besides, if Patrick really needed to kill someone, he still had his .44 on his hip, along with all the other weapons he was finally reunited with.

Patrick lifted the heavier laser rifle and pointed it at the soldier in the old fashioned power armor. He braced himself, made sure he was aiming for the middle of the chest piece, and pulled the trigger.

The laser rifle had no recoil, which always surprised Patrick, who was used to a rifle that would buck against your shoulder. But a bright blue light, with a loud, magnified BOOM like a crack of thunder, shot out in a blink of an eye, and hit the power armor. There were sparks and the smell of burnt copper and the sizzle of electronics as it impacted the power armor.

The man in the power armor didn't move. There was some muffled talking, then yelling. But otherwise it looked like he froze in place.

"Just as I expected," the scientist behind Patrick said, stepping forward. "The servos and motors have been fried, making it impossible for him to move. All electronics in the machine, from the heads up display to the flashlight will all have been disabled."

"Can you get him out?" Patrick asked.

"Yes, but we won't be able to save the power armor," the scientist said. A crew of workers with plasma cutters and saws descended on the man.

"Don't they open with that hatch thing on the back?" Patrick said.

"Of course," the scientist scoffed, as if Patrick should know the answer already. "The problem is that the frame uses hydraulics to open up to allow the user to step into. But those hydraulics are operated with an electronic system, with the hatch door at the back and a special button on the inside." The scientist shook his head. "So we will have to cut into the frame to get him out."

Patrick winced as the cutters were turned on, shooting out a bright blue flame, then began to cut into the metal plating.

"Well, he survived the blast," Vince said. "I don't know if he'll survive the rescue. Reminds me of the time I saw a dog get its head caught in a pail that was full of bees in… R Kansas. The poor mutt."

But the weapon worked. And considering he would be going up against robots and bad guys in power armor that he didn't want to let out, this should be fine, right?

The train took a day and a half to travel from Winnipeg to Brahmin Crossing. More sabotage was taking place on the UAR lines, especially between the capital and Fargo, so a trip that would normally take only a few hours now turned into a long, uncomfortable trip.

"Should took a damn Vertibird," Patrick grumbled to Colonel Granger, who, unlike usual, wasn't in his suit of power armor, and instead sitting in his uniform across from Patrick. He was the man, along with at least 40 more rebel Enclave soldiers in Power Armor, that volunteered for this mission. Patrick wondered if it had to do with proving himself to Secretary Hawthorne that he could be trusted. The way that Colonel Granger nervously talked to Patrick about anything other than the upcoming attack radiogramed that maybe the Colonel wanted to prove himself to Patrick too.

"If we did, the Vault would have noticed. So we need to sneak up on them, and that's why we are taking the train," Colonel Granger replied.

Patrick sighed. Even after they got off the train, it would be another day on top of that to hike all the way to the Vault from Brahmin Crossing. "They have to know we are on the way," Patrick said.

"Undoubtedly," Colonel Granger said. "That's where your new weapon comes in handy. They wouldn't have anything to counter that."

Patrick sighed, and eventually dozed off as the train rumbled down the track, rocking softly back and forth. He couldn't let himself go to sleep, after what happened near Grand Forks…

They got to Brahmin Crossing early in the morning, and set out across the North Dakota wasteland heading west, back to the vault. The townspeople that were up and around early in the day were not that amazed by the group of soldiers in power armor wandering around like they were in Patrick first brought Colonel Granger out of the Vault and through town. Maybe they'd just gotten used to it?

But the hike to the Vault was, as Patrick thought, another full day of riding and marching. And since Vince had never ridden a Sleipnir before, Patrick had to show him how to do that to, which slowed them down, if not the Enclave soldiers.

"Damn, this is tough," Vince said when they stopped that evening, walking bow legged.

Patrick chuckled. "Well, you could have stayed behind in Winnipeg."

"And miss all the fun?" Vince said, a grin on his face.

They ate and slept, with the Enclave soldiers manning watches and patrols to make sure their little camping spot wasn't attacked. Patrick had to be shook awake the next morning, with the sun only just appearing on the horizon. He hadn't had a good sleep in almost a week now, with all the trains, the staying awake at all hours when infiltrating Kildonan and stopping the Coup, running on adrenaline and caffeine from Nuka Cola. Patrick really hoped that maybe after this, he might be able to get a good sleep for a little while at least.

Breakfast was just whatever they brought with them that they didn't eat the night before. Patrick had a Salisbury Steak and a bottle of water: not the most appetizing of breakfast, but enough to fill him up. And then they set out again.

They were only an hour or two from the Vault, and scouts said there was nothing around the Vault that would impede them. Of course, Patrick didn't trust the report, as who was to say that is what the scout wanted everyone to think? But the closer they got, and the lack of turrets or power armored soldiers or robots of death, Patrick thought that maybe, just maybe the scout was right.

After tying the sleipnir's to an old fence post and ensuring everyone's weapons were loaded and ready to use, the whole force got to the ramp that lead down the slope into the Vault. Colonel Granger and a few soldiers went up to the big cog-wheel door, and tried to open it from the outside while everyone else, Patrick included, watched from the surface. But nothing worked. Passwords, the Pip-Boy Vault overriding mechanism, nothing.

"What the hell?" Colonel Granger said. "They must have changed the passwords."

A staticky screech from a speaker came on. "And you would be right, you traitor!"

"Speaker Graham," Colonel Granger growled. "You lied to me, and nearly destroyed the Enclave while doing it. For that, you are going to pay!"

"Maybe if you and your men weren't such pussy's and would have fought to the last man instead of letting some degenerate, mutated wastelander talk you out of it, Assiniboia would be no more and America would be great again!" Speaker Graham shouted through the speakers. "I knew you were too soft hearted for this Colonel. Should have had you imprisoned, if not executed for listening and trusting that dirty farmer."

Patrick growled low in his throat, but he stayed where he was.

"Last chance Mr. Speaker," Colonel Granger said. "Open this door, or we will knock it down."

"Hah! I'd like to see you try. Three feet of reinforced steel. Good luck getting through that!" The speaker cut out.

Colonel Granger stood for a moment before he turned around and marched back up the ramp to the rest of the soldiers. "Alright, Plan B."

"What? Are you crazy?" One of the soldiers asked. "Uh, sir?"

"They won't be expecting it. I know it's dangerous, but it can be done. You know your power armor can withstand it," Colonel Granger said.

"Uh, what is Plan B?" Patrick asked.

Colonel Granger grinned, then put on his helmet. "We are going in through the hanger."

"The what?" Patrick asked.

"It's where we kept the Vertibirds when we were underground, and where they can come in and out. Basically a huge hole that leads 200 some feet down into the ground, and close to the armory and barracks, so we can isolate the few defenders down there from their weapons."

Patrick blinked. Granger looked around, until he saw the area where the dirt and dust had disappeared about four feet deep, where the massive doors that opened to the hanger were located. He surveyed the area, before nodding to himself.

"That's an awful long drop. And how do you plan to get it?"

Colonel Granger would have been smiling again, but the helmet made it impossible to see. "Tavish! Jamison! Bring out the big guns! You know what to aim for, right?"

Two people in power armor shouted "Sir yes sir!" then ran forward, pulling out massive launchers that had been attached to their back. They both grabbed a football sized object that was in a specially designed compartment on the launcher, and set the object in the launcher. It was then pulled back, and two nearly simultaneous bells rang out.

For some odd reason, Patrick was suddenly hungry.

There was a soft wooosh as the spring loaded mechanisms on the launchers let go, the two football like objects soaring through the air in a graceful arch.

Granger turned around. "Everyone, make sure your helmets are on! Auxiliary, Duck and Cover!"

"What, why?" Patrick asked, confused. As the Enclave soldiers turned away or crouched.

"It's a bloody Fat Man! Get down!" Vince cried out, jumping on Patrick, and knocking him backwards. Vince then rolled off and crouched.

There was an earth shattering kaboom. Patrick wasn't looking right at the explosion, but a brilliant bright white, brighter than staring at the sun, brighter than someone waving a flashlight in his face, blinded him. He shut his eyes tight, but even that wasn't enough to make the bright light go away. He twisted around to try to dig his head into the ground, but by then the light was gone.

Then there was a roar, a rumbling, feral, terrifying sound as all the air rushed past Patrick, blowing dirt and grass and debris in all directions. Patrick could hear screaming somewhere, but after a moment realized it was him.

The wind died down a moment later, but a distance roaring rumble could still be heard. Patrick carefully, cautiously looked up, blinking as he realized that he was slightly blinded, and everything seemed a lot brighter than it should have been.

Two mushroom clouds hung over the hole in the ground that lead to the hanger, but it was already starting to fade away as Patrick watched.

"What… what was that?" Patrick said.

"No need to shout there," Colonel Granger whispered as he walked up in his power armor.

"I'm not shouting!" Patrick said, before realizing that everything was really quiet, and his ears were ringing. "Okay, maybe I am!"

Colonel Granger pulled Patrick up onto his feet. "That was a Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult. It fires a miniature nuclear warhead, so it's a lot like an actual nuclear bomb, causing a massive explosion and irradiating the nearby area. But unlike the bombs used in the Great War, these are really scaled down, and the radiation doesn't last long." Colonel Granger then turned to the two soldiers that fired the Fat Man's. "Did it work?"

"See for yourself, sir," one of them said, pointing to the hole.

Before they even went to the hole, everyone not in power armor took a couple Rad-X pills, enough to block the most harmful radiation. Colonel Granger, Patrick, Vince and a few curious onlookers came up. The two doors that was there before were gone now, the bent metal having falling into the pit down to the hanger below.

"Oh man! That was so much fun! Better than a missile launcher or dynamite anyday!" the other explosives man exclaimed, laughing maniacally.

"Calm down Jamison. That's just the first step." Colonel Granger turned to the soldiers. "Alright, everyone down! Time to put down that rabid dog!"

Half of the soldiers, armed with their laser and plasma rifles, gave a cheer, before they just sprinted and jumped into the hole, plunging through the black abyss. The sound of 20 some suits of power armor crashing down, followed only moments later by the sound of gunfire and lasers, came up from the hole.

"Oh you gotta be kidding me," Patrick said, turning to Colonel Granger. "I can't jump down there."

"Oh, you won't be jumping. Everyone else, the guys with the heavy guns, are rappelling down. And you can join them that way."

Soldiers were already attaching hooked cables as best as they could to the ground, pulling on them as hard as they could to make sure they were safe. One wasn't, and the Enclave soldier tugging on it stumbled backwards, but was saved by two other power armored soldiers before he fell into the pit.

The cables that were secure then had the loose end tossed down. Several power armored men, with laser Gatling and miniguns and missile launchers, went down the ropes first, expertly lowering themselves with kicks and leaps. Colonel Granger also went down at this point, his laser rifle at the ready.

"Alright Auxiliary," A grizzled sergeant said, fastening a makeshift harness made out of rope and clips around him. "Your turn. You don't need to do anything fancy like these guys, just let us lower you down."

Patrick took a deep breath, and shuddered. "I think I'm regretting not asking you guys about letting me use some power armor," he said.

"Eh, you don't always land on your feet," the sergeant said. "Besides, it takes weeks to properly train how to even walk in the damn things."

Vince chuckled. "When I was younger I managed to get my hands on some power armor. Some old guy whose father had been in the army. Of course, I didn't ask him if I could use it…"

"You can tell that story later," Patrick told Vince. "Let's just make sure this story doesn't have a sudden ending."

Patrick carefully maneuvered himself to the hole, and carefully getting himself down enough that he could be lowered further. A couple Enclave soldiers began to use the rope, letting him fall slowly and carefully to the hanger below. Patrick looked down, and he could see the red bolts of laser energy firing back and forth, with a green ball of energy shooting across every so often. A few suits of power armor were sprawled out on the floor, unmoving, their weapons laying beside them or still in hand.

Patrick reached for Project E-87 that was strapped to his back, and pulled it off the special vest like holster that the Enclave had, a series of magnets that allowed them to carry a laser rifle or some other kind of gun on his back. More powerful magnets on power armor let them carry a minigun or a box of supplies, or the Fat Man launcher.

Patrick made sure it was loaded as he came within ten feet of the fighting. But then the rope stopped.

Patrick looked up to see the sergeant try to shout something, but he couldn't hear over the fighting below. He tried to make a hand gesture, but he couldn't see it, or understand what he was seeing.

But he wasn't getting any lower, so something must have went wrong. He looked down. He wasn't that far, and he shouldn't hurt himself if…

He yanked the part of the rope that the sergeant said would release him from the harness. Patrick had to pull a couple of times, but it all slid apart, and he was suddenly free.

Patrick had only a moment to try to get his feet under him and his knees bent before he landed on the floor. He tried to roll, but it wasn't very graceful or impressive, but it was enough to make sure he didn't break every bone in his legs. A laser bolt snarled past his head with an angry hiss, making him duck, trying to push himself into the concrete floor.

"For the Enclave! For America!" Someone shouted from the far side of the room. Patrick carefully glanced up to see several robots, Protectrons and Mr. Gutsy's and one massive hulking robot with a tripod like form that allow it to move in any direction, and two arms, one with a minigun (that was firing on the rebel Enclave soldiers on the far side of the hanger), the other with a missile launcher (which it launched against a different group of rebel Enclave soldiers, sending three of them flying through the air.

"Please stand clear," the robotic voice of the massive hunk of steel and armament said. "Communists and traitors to America will be dealt with."

"Kill that fucking sentry bot, someone!" a rebel Enclave soldier screamed, before a hail of minigun bullets destroyed this helmet and killed him.

Patrick took a breath and lifted up his new gun, aiming it at the robot. It was a good thing it was such a big target, so he aimed for about the middle of the sentry bot. He pulled the trigger, and lightning shot from his gun.

The robot had shifted a bit to fire at another target, and the bolt of electricity designed to overwhelm electronics hit it just under the left arm with the missile launcher, making that side of his body suddenly droop. The missile that was in the tube and about to fire then exploded in it's tube, destroying the Sentry bot, several other robots, and anyone else that was too close when it happened.

"Good shot, Auxiliary!" someone shouted. Patrick turned around to see Vince just getting himself lowered into the pit, followed a moment later with more Enclave soldiers, the ones that helped lower them in, land on the ground after jumping from the top.

The Loyalist Enclave soldiers that survived the destruction of the sentry bot began to pull back into a corridor, going deeper into the vault. The robots, on the other hand, still fought on, but now that the sentry bot was down, the Rebel Enclaves soldiers managed to destroy the rest, liberating the hanger. Patrick did his best with Project E-87 to contribute, and he nailed a few more robots, and turned a fleeing Loyalist Enclave power armored soldier into a statue. It was like shooting fish in a barrel, though Patrick had never fished in his life, much less knew what a fish was considering most aquatic creatures had died in the mass extinction after the War of 2077.

Colonel Granger came up a moment later. "Good to see that gun is doing its job. Just wish that we could get to MAVIS and shut them down… but the techies say that the computer is so well protected, they will never get to them in time."

Patrick nodded. "Now what?"

"We fight our way through the Vault to the Speaker. And if you are up to it, I think you're the one that will be going ahead, as that gun can mow down anything they can throw at us."

"I guess, yeah." Patrick stretched his back, and felt something pop. "Anyway, no time like the present to field test it, eh?."

The Rebel Enclave soldiers began to form up in squads to sweep through the Vault. Patrick, Colonel Granger and Vince, with ten or so more power armored soldiers, began the march through the Vault to find Speaker Graham, which Colonel Granger guessed would be in what they called the Situation Room, which was higher in the Vault. They cleared out and secured the bottom level of the vault, with the Nuclear Reactor and barracks and armory, which was unfortunately empty.

"That could be a problem," Colonel Granger admitted. "There was a lot of powerful weapons in here, and we didn't take them all to Winnipeg."

But the robots were just being thrown at them, and since none of them where the fearsome sentry bots, they were easily dealt with. However, the cameras all over the Vault must have meant that the people in charge knew where to send the robots, making it incredibly inconvenient for the rebel Enclave soldiers. Little eyebots floated around, beeping loudly when they found Patrick and his little gang showed up. Patrick usually didn't get time to shoot the hovering, dodging robots with the speakers before someone else got them. Same with the Protectrons and Mister Gutsy robots that showed up. The next two levels, mostly of residence areas and storage, was cleared easily, leaving mostly scrap metal.

It was when the power armored soldiers came up, like after they cleared out the cafeteria and the kitchen on the fourth floor and were ascending the stairs to the next floor up. They were ambushed on the stairway by a machine gun perched on top of some desks and sandbags, and one Enclave Rebel was cut down.

Patrick fired a couple shots with Project X-87, but all the shots missed. In anger, he pulled out his .44 and joined the soldiers banging away at the machine gun to try to maybe get a lucky shot at the machine gunners, but it definitely shot back, mocking all the lasers and bullets that filled the air heading in their direction.

One soldier in power armor reached into a pocket on his power armor, and pulled out a frag grenade. He pulled the pin.

"One, two… five!" he shouted, throwing it at the machine gunners.

"You missed three…" someone else said before a loud blast echoed through the narrow hallway. The machine gun had stopped firing however, leaving two moaning and injured loyalist soldiers that were carried away, and the barricade cleared away to allow them to continue.

As they worked on clearing level five, which had the large open area that was used as the Atrium, as well as the only area large enough in the Vault to allow the rump Congress to meet, more machine guns, as well as soldiers with missile launchers and laser gatling guns and even another sentry bot that had both a laser gatling gun and a missile launcher firing at the Rebel Enclave soldiers as they tried to take them out.

This time, they were flanked out: Patrick and some soldiers snuck to the next level up, hurriedly, but quietly, sneaking around until they got to behind them. Patrick, when he got into position to just see enough of the sentry bot to take a shot, fired Project X-87. The impact hit the bot, but it didn't explode.

"Crap!" Patrick muttered. The Sentry bot made some whirring noises.

"Alert, alert! Flanking maneuver detected!" the sentry bot shouted.

"Crap, crap, crap, crap!" Patrick said, fumbling as he tried to reload the gun. The other soldiers began to fire to keep the fire off Patrick until he managed to get the microfusion cell into place. He lifted the gun up, and pulled the trigger again.

This time the impact hit the sentry bot in the chest. The thick steel wasn't quite enough to withstand the bolt of energy, and the robot slumped as the electronics that operated it were fried.

With the sentry bot down, the other rebel Enclave soldiers with Patrick rushed forward, and got at the soldiers with the machine guns and the missile launchers, taking them by surprise. They all went down to a man.

"Good shooting there Auxiliary!" one soldier said. "We'd all be blood splatter if you weren't here."

Patrick allowed a wiry smile. "If anyone is going to be a blood splatter, it would be the person not protected by composite armor, right?"

The soldier had already rushed off to help secure the rest of the floor. Patrick continued up back to the level he was on that allowed him to sneak behind.

That level had nothing guarding it but a few turrets, which were very fragile and easily destroyed by regular lasers or bullets. But they lead to the Situation Room, which was part of the President's Suite, which replaced the Overseer's office that most normal vaults had.

Black suited security guards with black sunglasses and powerful handguns and plasma pistols, along with a few turrets and robots were all that stood in the way of the the rebel Enclave soldiers in the suite of bedrooms, offices, private dining area and the conference room that Patrick recognized from when he first meet the Enclave.

But like everything else, they were swept aside. They didn't even have bulletproof armor under their suits.

Patrick, following Colonel Granger, and ahead of Vince, stormed into the last room, the Situation Room. Black and white TV monitors filled one entire wall, the other with a massive map of the United States, another of the Vault itself. A large table, with several computers, mountains of papers and a small, proudly standing US flag in the middle, dominated most of the room.

And standing staring at the monitors, all filled with scenes of soldiers fighting each other, was J. W. Graham, his suit ill kempt, his tie askew, his hair a mess, staring blankly into the distance. On the desk behind him, a 10mm pistol sat. Everyone that just stormed into the room pointed a gun at the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and Acting President of the United States of America.

"Speaker Graham, you are under arrest for treason to the United States of America and the Enclave," Colonel Granger, doing his best to control his voice, said.

"This… this is unthinkable," Speaker Graham said, his voice hollow. He slowly turned his head to Colonel Granger. "You… you and that snake Hawthorne have doomed us all."

"You nearly destroyed the Enclave yourself," Colonel Granger said. "Your lies, your deceit, your incompetence, your bull headedness, your refusal to listen to anyone else, your xenophobism, your pursuit of unlimited power, your ideological perfect version of America that is long dead… That's all on you. Everyone was blind to it for so long, but your attempt to overthrow the one nation, the one people, that had even a remote chance of bringing civilization to the world that our predecessors destroyed has shattered that vision." Colonel Granger took a deep breath. "So, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Speaker Graham continued staring at Granger, barely blinking. "I did what I had to for America. Assiniboia is nothing. Assiniboia is a lie, a cheat, a failure! And you will see soon enough, all you traitors. I was giving them a chance to better themselves, to make them a great power, to lift them up.

"Being servants to American tyrants is not what we have in mind," Patrick shot back.

Graham didn't even respond to Patrick. "Even if we failed then, it was better that we die as freemen, as Americans, than to turn into slaves. But you betrayed me. You betrayed America!" he screamed.

Graham then took a breath. "But it's over. The true America has breathed its last. It is dead. You have killed it's last chance, and let a horrendous monster take its place. So if you want to bow at the feet of some mutated, irradiated corpse that claims to be the inheritor of the world," he said, looking at Patrick, with his cold, dead eyes, "then fine. Go do it. But I…" Speaker Graham said, turning to face everyone else, placing his hand over his heart. "I will die as I lived: a patriotic American." He then took a breath. "Oh say can you see," he sang "by the dawn's early light?"

His other hand came up, the 10mm suddenly in it. Everyone shouted in a guttural panicked scream, and everyone ducked to avoid wherever he was going to fire at, but he placed the barrel against his temple, and pulled the trigger. His body instantly went limp, falling onto the desk, and leaving blood in a smeared path, he fell to the floor.

Everyone in the room stared at the lifeless body. Patrick was shocked that he did it. Maybe he knew it was hopeless, that he had no chance to win. Or maybe he just wanted to take the easy way out.

Either way, it was over now.

Colonel Granger bent down to the body, and tried to feel for a pulse. When he didn't, he then reached into his pockets, searching through his jacket and pants. There was a lot in his pockets: pens, keys, a small radio, but finally Granger found what he was looking for, and pulled out a card, and then gave it to Patrick. "This is the Enclave Nuclear Weapon Authorization Code, which we call the 'Last Resort.' I already have one, and by protocol, no one person can hold both codes. So, until further notice, I'm entrusting this to you."

Patrick carefully took the card, which was about the size of a playing card, and looked at it. There was two rows of digits on the card.

"In the event that the Enclave had to use a nuclear weapon, at least two people in the highest echelons of power have to give approval. There are several missile silos that have long been hidden and not used in North Dakota during the Great War, so they are still under the command of the United States Government, the Enclave. In the event that we need to use it, we radio the frequency on the first line and then confirm the order with the second line. Then another person has to do the same with their card, which has different numbers. When both have been verified, the missiles are launched."

"How do we determine where to launch it? That is, if we need to?" Patrick hastily added.

"Normally there would be a series of different scenarios that MAVIS would know, but we can also manually give the coordinates," Colonel Granger replied. "That's where the Pip-Boy would come in handy. Just pick the spot, get the longitude and latitude, give the order, and kaboom! It's gone."

Patrick was about to ask another question when suddenly sirens began to wail, red strobe lights filling the room.

"What the hell is going on?" Vince yelled, looking around in confusion.

As if to answer him, the speakers crackled to life. "Code Red! Code Red!" a computerized female voice barked. "Nuclear reactor has gone supercritical: Meltdown in approximately five minutes. Evacuate the Vault immediately!"

Ice ran through Patrick's veins. "What? How? Why?"

Colonel Granger looked at the small radio, which was more like a small walky-talky he pulled off of Speaker Graham. The transmit function was still on, taped into place. "He must have given a secret code to MAVIS to have the safeguards removed." He turned to see soldiers starting to panic. "Everyone out! This is not a drill!" He then turned to Patrick. "Auxiliary, follow me!"

The soldiers pushed their way out of the room as quickly as they could, not really giving a damn about order. Patrick did his best to follow Colonel Granger, as it was still a maze down here in the Vault. They went up a couple more flights of stairs, all full of people: soldiers with their guns, politicians that had vowed to stay loyal to the Enclave (or rather, the now deceased Graham) to the end but now decided to hoof it, and the few civilians like secretaries, janitors, women and children left, some with suitcases, some carrying boxes, some just crying and running as fast as they could to get out. A young girl cried as she lost grip on her teddy bear and it was trampled under the mess, while a young man tripped, and was also trampled on. Patrick shuddered at the thought.

They made it to the big door in less than two minutes, but it was shut tight.

"The codes don't work!" Someone shouted. "They have been changed!"

"What are the new codes?" another person screamed. "We got to get out of here!"

Two men in white coats pushed up. "Get out of the way! We can try to fix this!" People managed to move out of the way somewhat to let the computer techs to get ahead.

Colonel Granger looked around, worry and fear on his face. He then looked to Patrick. "I don't think they will be able to hotwire it in time though. Even though the entire system is linked to MAVIS below, it will just take too long." He sighed. "So this might be it. We stopped the madman, and but now he's killing all of us in return. So he'll get the last laugh in hell now." Colonel Granger sighed, and looked at Patrick. "I'm sorry that you were dragged into this. I really do wish you would have been able to find and rescue your brother."

My brother…I got to get out of here. For Zach… Patrick bit his lip, then he noticed the radio in Colonel Granger's hand. "Wait a minute… what was the code that Speaker Graham used to lower the safeguards?"

"I have no idea," Colonel Granger said. "But since it was transmitted, my guess is something verbal."

Patrick thought quickly. "What was the last thing he said? That… song he sang?"

Colonel Granger thought. "Oh… that was the first line of the Star Spangled Banner, the national anthem of America."

Patrick thought. "Maybe… the code is something from that?"

Colonel Granger thought for a moment, trying to find a reason to say it was stupid, that it would never work. But he gave a small chuckle. "Maybe it is. And besides… not like we have anything left to lose."

"Two minutes until meltdown," the female voice announced on the speakers. There was a soft rumble somewhere down below something was blowing up several stories in the bowels of the Vault.

Colonel Granger straightened his shoulders, and held up the walky-talky. "Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light?"

People in earshot nearby stopped freaking out, if just wondering what daft person would start singing now. Vince, who had elbowed his way up to Patrick, was about to ask what was going on, but Patrick shushed him.

"What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming," Colonel Granger continued. A couple other people also began to sing, some thinking it as a final swansong of the Enclave. Patrick and Colonel Granger knew better, and the officer held up the walky-talky higher so that it could hear everyone.

"Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,"

"One minute and thirty seconds until Meltdown," the speakers said.

"O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?" the singers sang. Now everyone in the crowded entrance to the vault but the technicians trying to hack into the computer system and Patrick who had no idea of the lyrics were singing.

"And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air," they sang, with a bunch of sparks coming from the computer terminals the technicians were working at, making them shout in shock and panic that their last hope was gone.

"Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there."

"One minute until Meltdown." More rumbles, and a louder crash could be heard over the speakers.

"Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave," everyone, including the Technicians, sang.

"O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"

The speaker on the walky-talky suddenly came to life. "Confirmation received. Unlocking Vault Door."

Suddenly another siren, with an orange light over the Vault door lit up. The metal arm swung down and fastened into the door. There was silence for a moment, then a loud cheer as the loud screech of steel on steel filled their ears as the massive Vault door was pulled out of its resting spot.

"Thirty seconds until melt-" The speakers suddenly went to static.

Now everyone was worried that the door wouldn't open fast enough. But the other arm came out of the wall, and latched into the middle of the door, and began to pull it to the side. As soon as it was opened enough to allow someone through, some people began to push their way out. As the door opened wider, more and more people began to flood through the opening. Patrick felt himself being dragged with the crowd, and soon he was outside, and going up the dirt ramp that lead to the Vault door.

The sun had gone down since he and the other soldiers had stormed the Vault, leaving only thousands of stars in the sky to shine down on the people that came out. There wasn't even a moon that could be seen anywhere. He was surprised: had it taken all day to fight in the Vault? Apparently, he guessed. It was quite a shock to him: it honestly felt like maybe an hour or two at the most.

There was a massive explosion. A bright light could be seen from the hole where the hanger was, along with an explosion as dust, debris and other objects were launched through the hole, and into the sky.

"The reactor just exploded!" someone cried.

"Get away from here! The radiation could be here any moment now!" another person yelled.

Patrick managed to stop himself and look around. Vince had gotten separated from him, as well as Colonel Granger. He was looking for the two people he knew.

He saw Vince, eyepatch and all, ushering people to run to the left. He gave a wave, and Vince waved back. He then went back to helping.

But where was Colonel Granger?

The massive metal doors that had hidden the ramp for 140 years before Patrick stumbled upon it almost two months ago began to close, with yet another klaxon giving the warning to stay clear. The last few stragglers, mostly power armored soldiers that must have been deep in the bowels of the Vault managed to get past the doors as they closed.

Patrick ran up to one. "Where is Colonel Granger?"

"I don't know, I didn't see him," the power armored soldier said.

Three more stragglers in power armor said the same thing.

Maybe he already managed to get out?

The last power armored soldier, who actually had to use the extra strength provided by the power armor to hold up the door to allow a woman and her child to get out let the door down with a slam, and was panting heavily. Patrick went up to him.

"Did you see Colonel Granger?" Patrick asked.

The soldier in his power armor looked to Patrick. "Oh, Auxiliary," he said, his voice muffled and enhanced by the the power armor, but he was also breathing heavily from the exertion he went through. "I saw him… run back into the vault... closing the door behind me."

"What?" Patrick exclaimed.

"He… he said he was going to look… for more people," the soldier said, panting. "But… I don't think there will... be anyone. The rads are…. already way past lethal, even in... the Vault entrance."

Patrick could feel something click in his mind, and it was like a brick wall fell on him. "He… he…"

"I'm sorry Auxiliary," the soldier said. "Colonel Granger was a good man. He was a father to his men, and he knew right from wrong. But I'm really sorry." The soldier sighed, stood up, and walked away.

Patrick sank to the ground. For the first time since the death of Grandma Morrison, he began to cry.

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #38

MAVIS Handbook Introduction.

Thank you for your purchase/congratulation on your assignment/Drop dead you Commie scum hacker (Please select appropriate greeting) of this handbuilt, state of the art computer system, MAVIS, by Rob-Co!

MAVIS (Multi-Automated Vault Integrated Systems) is a specially designed supercomputer to be used in managing and running Vault _ (insert number here) by Vault-tec. While many Vaults will make do with many independent computerized systems, Vault _ (insert number here) will be using MAVIS to manage all the systems. Nuclear reactor controls? Hydroponics? Internal and external defense? The Vault Door? The robot mainframe? Your personal computers? All of them will be managed by MAVIS!

Before you use MAVIS, ensure you have read all the material provided (MAVIS Handbook's Volume 1-87). Just one wrong line of code could render the entire system useless, so be careful!

In the event you require technical support, please call 1-999-847-1833 for Official RobCo tech support (open 1 pm to 4 pm, Tuesday to Thursday).

Thank you for your purchase of MAVIS!


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty-Six

The surviving members of the Enclave, both Rebel and Loyalist, huddled together in a small camp around the old farm house and barn that Patrick had found months ago. The weather was thankfully warm and calm, but the change from living your entire life underground to being thrust into the outside world without even a chance to properly prepare was a huge shock to the men and women of the Enclave. Many people were suffering from Agoraphobia, and they huddled in the old farm house, doing their best to not look outside. Others were injured in the fighting, so the few stimpaks, Radaway and Rad-X that the soldiers carried were quickly used up to help the civilians. Doctors did their best, but they were quickly overwhelmed.

Food was a major issue as well. All the hydroponic stations and greenhouses in the Vault were now inaccessible, the food that was growing in them now irradiated beyond any safety standard. No one, of course, thought to carry food with them in the few minutes they had to leave before the reactor melted down.

But the biggest problem, and the one that already lead to angry words, fistfights, and guns being drawn, was who was in charge of the Enclave now? Secretary of State Elizabeth Morgan and Secretary of Defense Creighton Hawthorne, even though they were far away in Winnipeg, and had "abandoned" them? The President Pro Tempore of the Senate, a senile old man who thought he was best friends with Abraham Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt? Or should they have an election, the Old World way to solve these questions, an action that hadn't even been practiced in the 140 years since the Vault door closed?

Eventually the soldiers, scientists, politicians eventually agreed on two things: picking the highest ranking military officer, Major Ulysses Sherman as temporary leader of the Enclave, and that they had to go. The 500 or so Enclave survivors couldn't stay around the Vault. The radiation was spreading from the hole that lead to the hangar, and there wasn't enough food to feed everyone. It was decided to have everyone evacuate toward Brahmin Crossing, the closest town, and once where they could then go to Winnipeg easily enough, or at least get food and supplies to return back.

But it was all white noise to Patrick. He was still in shock that Colonel Granger was dead. The deathclaws, the super mutants, the coup in Winnipeg… and it was radioactive waste from an exploding nuclear reactor that killed him.

But why? Why would he go back? Why would he stay on the wrong side of the damn door when he closed it? Wasn't everyone here? Well, they couldn't know. They have no idea who all died in the fighting, how many were in Winnipeg, or how many quietly snuck out of the Vault sometime between when the doors first opened and when they closed forever, or how many were imprisoned or arrested by paranoid vault security on orders of the now dead, irradiated Speaker.

Patrick wish he could get the answers. But the only person who would know was dead.

Escorting the Enclave members to Brahmin Springs helped a bit to keep his mind off what just happened. Lots of questions about the wasteland, Winnipeg, Assiniboia and everything else was asked of him: Are there monsters? Cannibals? Bandits? Mutant monsters? What was that thing he was riding? Can they ride Demon? The answer to the last question was a big no. The last thing Patrick wanted was to have a kid break their neck.

But Patrick did the next best thing: he told stories. He had to smile as he told the kids and the adults of his adventures, as they listened in awe and amazement as he told the stories of Brandon, of Waskada, of Winnipeg and North Dakota. Vince told his own stories as well, from everywhere: New California, the Capitol Wasteland, the Commonwealth, Orleans, Texas, the Mojave Desert, the Appalachians, the Rockies. Most of them where stories Patrick heard before, but some were new to him as well.

One kid tripped in a radgopher hole, nearly broke his leg. There were a few cases of radiation poisoning, of those that were lower in the Vault when the meltdown and radiation leakage were starting. The supplies of RadAway were running out though, so the tough choices of who to save it for became important, and the scene of increasingly loud and angry arguments. One person a technician that was right next to the reactor when the safeguards went offline, eventually died after puking his guts out for hours and lost all his hair. Several other people seemed to be not much further from death from rads. Those that suffered from Agrophobia were getting increasingly distraught, and one woman suddenly ran screaming off to the south when she had a panic attack. A couple power armored soldiers went to go find her. They didn't come back until that evening, saying she had vanished, most likely got so far ahead of them that their slow, bulky power armor made it hard to keep up. Another woman, sobbing ever since she left the vault for a lost loved one, suddenly pulled a gun and shot herself. Her body, minus the gun and whatever valuables she had, was left to decay.

They had to stop only a third of the way between the Vault and Brahmin Crossing to let the slow moving caravan to rest overnight, much to Major Sherman's annoyance. He was ready to march all night, but eventually the fact that the civilians would be left behind convinced him to stop. Patrick, Vince and the soldiers managed to hunt a few animals, including three radstags, which were cooked and eaten that night. But clean water was a problem, as there wasn't anything on the path that had been made between point A and B. The camp they built overnight was a sad sight: no tents, few bedrolls, the occasional sob or wail from someone as everything they had, sometimes including loved ones, was left behind.

But that quiet, warm, still night, without even a breeze, once again brought the questions Patrick was trying his best to put out of his head.

Vince came by with a small, charred slice of radstag, and offered it to Patrick, who took it with a grunt of thanks.

"You've had a rough few days," Vince commented.

"Now that you mentioned it: yes," Patrick said, tired and exhausted and bitter.

Vince sighed. "I don't know all that you and Colonel Granger went through, but from what you've told me, you two weren't exactly friends. But seeing you now… I think you've been lying to yourself."

"I-I don't know." Patrick could feel tears in his eyes. "When we started, it was a professional relationship: He wanted to see what America was like, and I was mostly along to help with getting him to understand the Wasteland. We butted heads, so many times, over Minot, over the Bomber City, over the Super Mutants."

"Some of the best friendships are those between people that have opposing views," Vince said. "I've seen people who were the best of friends, but couldn't agree on anything, from how to run a settlement to whether they should have mirelurk or brahmin for supper. As long as you respect the differences, and try not to force your beliefs on anyone, you can make friends with anyone, unless they don't follow those rules themselves."

Patrick thought about that, then nodded. "Well, yeah. We were like that."

"And I saw you two at the Legislative Building. You were both happy to see each other, wouldn't you say?"

"It was nice seeing a friendly face, even if he was in charge of the coup," Patrick admitted.

"And yet you managed to convince him to end the coup, even when he said that he couldn't. He must have respected you enough to at least listen to you, to see the flaw in his own thoughts. It takes a lot to accept that your ideas are misguided, and Colonel Granger seemed to have done that."

Patrick looked up at Vince. "Then why did he sacrifice himself? Couldn't he have stayed on the other side of the vault door to close it?"

"I can't answer that," Vince said. "But if he did it to make sure everyone was safe, then wasn't it worth it? Would you have done the same thing?"

Vince stood up and stretched. "Anyway, I better go find some shut eye." Something popped in his back, and he sighed, and coughed. "I might be getting too old for this."

Vince walked off to where he had set up his sleeping bag, leaving Patrick alone under the blanket of black and shimmering stars.

Nine people died through the night: two elderly men from heart attacks, a woman from a stroke, three more from radiation poisoning, two more suicides, and a young man from diabetes because he didn't bring his medicine. Another few people disappeared, most likely run off somewhere, or as much as Patrick didn't want to think about, maybe dragged off by animals like wolves or yao guai. Where they may have run or been dragged off to, Patrick couldn't even guess. Patrick hoped they at least had a gun with them.

Major Sherman was impatient, and it got to the point where he threatened to burn anything that slowed them down. That got folks moving faster than before, but still not fast enough for Sherman. But they eventually got going a bit after 10 AM.

The weather turned gloomy, and it began to rain after lunch time. Thankfully, to Patrick at least, it wasn't a rad storm from Radiation Alley. With a few hundred people tramping in a line, the prairie quickly turned into a thick soup of mud, as the short, radiation stunted grass couldn't hold the ground together. Men in power armor bogged down, and it took several other men to pull them out, only for others to get stuck. Some soldiers, exhausted and exasperated, eventually just climbed out of the power armor, locked it, and continued on foot, which wasn't much better.

Sleipnir's, however, made the trip a lot easier. Patrick and Vince only really had to worry about getting wet, though they would help to pull some power armor out.

"Man, if only we had some Fusiliers," Patrick said to Vince after helping another power armored soldier out of the mud. "Sure would make this a whole lot easier to get everyone there."

Vince nodded. "Well, the next time we have to evacuate a Vault on short notice, we'll keep that in mind." He was drenched in rain, and covered from his hips down in mud, with splotches all over his jacket and face and week old beard, including on his eye patch and hat. Patrick had a feeling he didn't look much prettier.

They had to camp again, the mud having slowed everyone down. But Patrick and Vince decided to ride on ahead, to warn Brahmin Crossing of the oncoming refugees.

The cold, wet night wasn't exactly easy to ride through. It was only thanks to the map and light on Patrick's Pip-Boy that they ensured they were still going east, and not stumbling into the middle of nowhere.

The rain finally let up around 2 or 3 AM when Patrick and Vince got to the outskirts of Brahmin Crossing. The streets were wet and muddy, and there was nobody out. They walked down one muddy street, then another, until they got to the train station. Patrick and Vince tied up their sleipnir's to a hitching post and walked in.

The inside of the station was just as quiet, but more people were inside. Most of them were quiet: a young woman holding her sleeping baby, a few men chatting in a corner on benches. A janitor slowly pushed a broom along the floor.

Patrick walked over to the main desk. "Excuse me?"

A middle aged lady in a UAR uniform looked up from the book she was reading. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"I need to send a radiogram to Winnipeg, as quickly as possible."

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, I can't…"

"What do you mean you can't?" Patrick asked.

She pointed to a sign taped to the edge of the desk, and Patrick looked at it.

PUBLIC RADIOGRAM SERVICES HAVE BEEN DISCONTINUED

THE DOMINION OF ASSINIBOIA, AS PER THE DEFENSE ACT, 2145, HAS ORDERED ALL PRIVATE COMMUNICATIONS TO SUSPEND SERVICE AND SUBMIT THEIR SYSTEMS FOR OFFICIAL USE OF THE DOMINION FOR THE DURATION OF THE EMERGENCY, AS DECLARED BY THE LEGISLATIVE ASSEMBLY, MEETING IN WINNIPEG, ON THE _ OF _, 2218.

WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.

Patrick looked up from the note. "Wait, when did that happen?"

"Yesterday," the lady said. "I have no idea why, but I heard it's something to do with Fargo, and the Brotherhood of Steel. We can no longer send messages anywhere."

"Look, I'm the Auxiliary, and…"

"The Auxiliary?" The lady asked, surprise on her face. "Huh, I thought you'd be older."

"Dammit, listen to me! I need to talk to the RAMP, the Army, someone, right away…"

"I'm sorry, but I can't," the lady said. "But, we can take your message and send them when the system is restored…"

"It will be too late!" Patrick exclaimed. "I have almost 500 people coming here right now, and I'm pretty sure you don't have the supplies to deal with that, do you?"

The lady cocked her head to the side. "What are you talking about?"

"You know the Enclave Vault, right?"

"Oh yeah. You found them, right?"

"Yes, but there was a fight, the nuclear reactor exploded, and the survivors from the Vault had to evacuate, and we came here. Now I need to get a hold of someone to help feed them."

The lady bit her lips. "I… I… okay. Fine. But this is my neck on the line." She stood up, pulled a pad of Radiogram notes from under the desk and handed it to Patrick. "Make it short, and I'll try to send it as soon as I can."

Patrick grabbed a pencil and quickly scrawled a message, directed to the RAMP Commissioner, about the Enclave Vault evacuation, and needing food and supplies. He then gave it to the lady, who went to the back room with the Radiogram, and typed out the message.

"It will take time before those supplies would get here," Vince said. "You got to load them on trains or boats, then send them down the river."

"I know. But again, if I knew we were evacuating an entire Vault…"

Suddenly the lady came running back from the room, another piece of paper in her hand. "I'm sorry Auxiliary, but the message didn't go through."

"What? Why?"

She handed over the message she carried.

TO ALL STATIONS: PRIORITY LEVEL: MAX. WAR! THE BOS HAS ATTACKED FARGO. PM HAWKSON HAS SUMMONED EMERGENCY SESSION OF PARLIAMENT TO DECLARE WAR. MARTIAL LAW DECLARED FOR DISTRICTS OF: WINNIPEG, RED RIVER AMERICA, SOURIS RIVER, FARGO, DEVILS LAKE. ALL RESERVES ARE BEING CALLED UP. RATIONING TO BE IMPOSED SOON. UAR, CARAVANS, RIVERBOATS NATIONALIZED. ALL SIRENS TO BE ACTIVATED. FURTHER INFO ON ABC RADIO. MAY GOD HELP US IN THIS DARK TIME.

Patrick looked at the large, bold letters on the piece of paper. "It… it's happened."

Vince looked at the radiogram as well. "I think the Enclave refugees are now the least of anyone's trouble."

The church bell began to ring out, followed a moment later by the warbling siren. Patrick froze in place: the last time he heard the siren, Melita was being attacked by raiders. This time, the siren blared for at least a minute, then a few moments later began to go again: an attention signal, signaling something had gone wrong.

Patrick turned on his Pip-Boy radio to DBS. The announcer was struggling to remain calm as he said exactly what the radiogram had said: the Brotherhood of Steel had attacked Fargo, the reserves are being called up, the Legislative Assembly is meeting, and Martial Law was in effect.

Patrick and Vince walked outside, and almost immediately ran into Bill Kovak, the blonde haired, large bearded owner of the motel Patrick had stayed in the first time he came here.

"Patrick?" the businessman asked, before yawning. "What's going on?"

"The Brotherhood just attacked Fargo," Patrick said. "We're at war."

Bill blinked, mentally processing what he just heard. "Well, shit."

"But there's another thing," Patrick then explained about the Enclave evacuees.

This time Bill's eyes jumped. "Wow, you sure seem to know how to get into trouble, eh?"

"You have no idea," Patrick said. He thought that Bill Kovak was about the only person he'd met that he didn't give his name as the Auxiliary. "But can you help out? At least long enough until Winnipeg can send assistance?"

Bill stroked his beard, thinking. "Well, maybe. Those Enclave people have treated us right, even if they were out of their element. Many of them didn't even understand how money works!"

Patrick chuckled. "So what do you need?"

"Don't you worry about that. I have a few favors to call in, and I'm sure I can convince the mayor to open up the community hall and get some supplies, as well as the district reeve. You won't have to ask the Church twice to help either. So you just go back and tell them we will be ready to welcome them with open arms."

Patrick and Vince headed out after a bite to eat from Bill, some hamburgers grilled over an open fire and even a couple cans of Borealis Ginger Ale in their shiny aluminum can, still giving the Aurora Borealis effect even after 141 years.

"I wonder how they did that," Patrick said, turning the can in his hands when he was done drinking, admiring the light show.

Vince shrugged. "Something sciency, I bet. The same reason why you can eat Salisbury Steaks or Fancy Lad Snack Cakes even now."

The two eventually stopped admiring the cans and saddled up, and went off to the Enclave camp. They arrived in the early morning, a couple hours after the sun got up, as it was easier to travel when rain wasn't pouring down. Enclave soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the camp as they got ready to move out again. Patrick rode up to Captain Sherman, who was fixing a servo on his power armor while puffing on a cigar, something that was most likely some fake product made in the Vault.

"Captain, I've informed Brahmin Crossing that everyone is coming."

The soldier puffed on his cigar as he turned a wrench as tight as he could. He then set it in a compartment on the power armor that held tools for handy repairs. "That sounds good. But I have a feeling you have some not so good news."

"Well, yeah. I wasn't able to get ahold of Winnipeg to get supplies for everyone."

"Why the hell not?" Captain Sherman barked.

"Because Assiniboia is at war with the Brotherhood. All 'non-essential' communications has been suspended."

Captain Sherman's cigar twitched. "Well shit."

"But I talked to a guy in Brahmin Crossing, and he said he will do all he can to help you guys for a while, until we get in contact with Winnipeg again."

Captain Sherman grunted. "Well, better than nothing. Alright, we'll get moving."

More people died through the night, but more from lack of medication, old age or medical problems than suicide or running off. The rest of the camp, hungry, tired, cold, and wet, sluggishly moved out an hour later.

They finally arrived at Brahmin Springs in the later afternoon. And like Bill Kovak promised, the town was ready to help. The Mayor and the District Reeve were on hand to welcome everyone, while other people were already working at a massive outdoor kitchen, and began to dish up food for everyone. The three doctors in town, with their nurses, were on hand to help to the sick. They were soon aided by the two doctors that were in Vault when the attack went in. Lists of everyone that came from the Vault were quickly written down to be taken to Winnipeg to the Enclave leadership there, to figure out what to do with them, and people were organized into shelters and homes where they were to stay for a while. A couple ministers consoled those that had lost loved ones as best as they could.

"This is incredible," Vince said from atop Treherne, watching as the Enclave refugees were organized and processed through the different stations set up.

"Hmm?" Patrick asked, looking up as he finished tying Demon to a hitching post. "What do you mean?"

"You don't see this too often nowadays," Vince said, shaking his head. "There are times in my travels when I thought the end of the world also ended common human decency, with the strong taking whatever they want from the weak, or just killing folks because they thought they looked at them funny," Vince said. "But then there are times, like right now, that my faith in humanity is restored. That ordinary people can take in random strangers, and given them so much, when they have so little to give in the first place."

Patrick was just as amazed as Vince at the outpouring of help that popped up on such short notice. Vince went off to help the doctors with his medical experience (years in the wasteland would do wonders for you), while Patrick went to find Bill, to see if he needed anything.

The town was in a state of organized chaos, with people racing around and Fusilier's drawn by sleipnir's or brahmin clogging the street. A radio blared away with DBS going on about the recently started war, and the "cessation of normal programming until further notice." Patrick thought that might have been a poor choice on the part of the people in charge of DBS to cut programs that would have entertained people in Assiniboia, but he wasn't the one in charge of it.

As Patrick was walking past a couple store fronts on his way to Bill's motel, a hand reached out and grabbed his arm, another covering his face, and dragged him into a the narrow, dark space between the two buildings. Patrick tried to struggle to break free, but whoever grabbed him was very strong.

"Now, don't shout Auxiliary," a woman whispered into Patrick's ear. "I just need to talk to you quickly."

Patrick paused. He heard that voice before. He looked over his shoulder to see a hooded figure, and the glimpse of a red ponytail. She then let go of him.

"Sorry about that, but I need to talk to you," Paladin Lord Ariel of the Brotherhood of Steel whispered.

"What the hell are you doing here? There is a war on!"

"I'm well aware of that," she said. "And that's why I'm here."

Patrick glared at her. "All I need to do is shout, and you'd be dead."

"Not if I kill you first," she said. "And I'd be a bigger challenge than anything you'd have faced before."

Patrick stood there for a solid minute, trying to stare her down. "Alright, fine. What do you want?"

"I have been asked to recruit you to the Brotherhood of Steel," she began. "This war is a major test of strength, and the Brotherhood is a lot stronger than Assiniboia. You should know that. So why sacrifice yourself?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "And I think we went over this a long time ago. The answer is still no. My country, right or wrong."

Paladin Ariel didn't even blink. "What if I was able to promise you that your brother would be returned to you the moment you switch sides?"

Now Patrick was dumbfounded. "What?"

"Your brother, Zach. He was being trained as an Initiate of the Brotherhood, along with the other children that had been… recruited in various ways," she said, as diplomatically as she could.

"Was?" Patrick asked.

"Was." Paladin Ariel confirmed. "When we made the connection between the two, your brother was withdrawn from the training, and taken to Bemidji, where Elder Ezekiel had made his headquarters." She then reached into her robe, and pulled out a piece of thick paper. "As proof, here is a photograph of your brother."

Patrick took the picture, then dug into his wallet for the other picture he had of his brother. In the old photo Zach was happy and cheerful, giving a million pound smile that brightened everything. In the new picture, Zach's hair was closely cropped, he was wearing a Brotherhood uniform, and had a forced smile that was sad and tired and miserable. But the scar on his cheek was the same.

But Patrick was well beyond stunned. His brother was safe, and no longer being put through the hell that was Brotherhood training. The picture looked natural, not cropped or edited.

"This… this is real?"

"I took the picture myself," Paladin Ariel said.

Patrick looked over both pictures again, studying every detail. His hands trembled. "It… it's all true. He's fine."

"If you agree to come with me, you will see your brother again in just less than a week." Ariel said. "That's how long it takes to get to there from here."

Patrick finally looked up. "There is something more to this though. I just know it. What's the catch?"

"We want you to denounce Assiniboia. Join with the Brotherhood and fight against this forsaken nation. You will be given the highest honors, made a member of the Forge, whatever the High Elder believes is right for working against Assiniboia."

Patrick looked at Ariel, then looked down at the pictures again. "I… I…"

"Yes?" Ariel said. "I don't have all day, you know."

"I… I can't."

Ariel's eyes didn't go wide in surprise, and she didn't exclaim in shock. But she was still surprised. "I thought you wanted your brother?"

"I do. I want it more than anything. But I want to be able to go home too. And if I work with you, then I will be declared a traitor, a person non grata in my own nation." Patrick turned to her. "What if that happened to you."

"It never would. I'm loyal to the Elder and the Brotherhood."

"But what if you had a family member in Assiniboia, and the price to go to them was that you renounce your loyalty?"

"I have no family in Assiniboia," she said.

"It's a fucking hypothetical question!" Patrick nearly shouted, but quickly got himself under control again. "Okay. So, pretend for a moment that there is something, someone that connects you to Assiniboia, the biggest thing in your life: a family member, a loved one. Now, imagine that you had to give up the loyalty to your country, your ideals, your entire way of life, to a group that was responsible for you losing it in the first place, just to see it again. Now, would you?"

Ariel didn't even blink. "No. The Brotherhood is all I have. There is nothing for a brother or sister to have but loyalty to the Brotherhood. We break all our ties with the outside world. The Brotherhood is my entire world."

"Well Assiniboia isn't my whole world, but it's a big chunk of it. My family, which your raider friends destroyed months ago, was even bigger. So why should I work with a group that hired a bunch of thugs to kill my grandparents, kidnapped my brother, and then tried to kill me?" Patrick asked. "Like I told you before: Assiniboia isn't my whole world. But they at least are decent enough to ask me to help them, rather than you blackmailing me."

Paladin Lord Ariel straightened her shoulders. "You realize you just signed your brother's death warrant, didn't you?"

Patrick glared at her. "If you dare to kill him, I will do everything in my power to not only kill you, the Elder, and every single power armoured bastard between here and Fargo, but I will destroy the Brotherhood, and grind it into ash, and ensure not a single trace of it remains!" Patrick was nearly shouting now. "I've survived your 'Fist of Steel,' I have brought down your agents and influence in Assiniboia. I have been underestimated by every single bastard that thought I was just a kid." Patrick came right up to her, his anger seething. "So don't you fucking dare think I won't make good on my promise."

Paladin Lord Ariel finally let a small smile cross her lips. "Elder Ezekiel would have found your passion a great asset to the Brotherhood." She bowed. "If you decide to change your mind, I'm sure a brother or sister will take prisoners." She then disappeared into the shadows.

Patrick left the alley, his anger boiling under his skin, until he got to the motel. He was directed to Bill, who was busy back in his office at the Motel organizing everything, and preventing the whole hastily organized effort from falling apart. He puffed on a cigarette, which was only the latest: his ashtray was full of butts of it's predecessors.

"Ah, Patrick… something wrong?"

"No. Nothing you can help with," Patrick said, then sat down in the chair. "But is there anything I can help you with?"

Bill looked for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "Nah, I think we got this." He stubbed out the cigarette, and got another one going. He offered one to Patrick, who refused it. "I got to say, this is going a lot better than I thought it would," Bill said "Still going to have people sleep on little more than some old blankets, but at least everyone will have a roof over their head, and a bit of food in their belly."

Patrick nodded. "Still wish it hadn't come to this, but thanks for helping out."

Bill looked up, and gave a small smile. "Well, we can't very well turn them away. We finally got a RadioGram up to Winnipeg, so more supplies will be arriving in a couple days."

"Well that's good," Patrick said.

"But I also have a message for you," Bill said, digging through the papers on his desk. He muttered something about clutter and being unorganized, until he finally found the piece of paper he was looking for. "Ah ha! Here," he said, handing it over.

Patrick took the Radiogram and looked at it. He read it over again, then sighed.

"No rest for the wicked," Patrick said, folding the message and putting it into his pocket.

"Off to go fight?" Bill asked.

"That's my guess, yeah. All the message says is that I'm being summoned to Fort Landon south of Grand Forks," Patrick said. And I know where the leader of the Brotherhood is now Patrick thought to himself. Maybe we can end this war quickly.

"Quite a few soldiers that stop here are usually coming from or going to Fort Landon. If half of what they say is true, it's perhaps the biggest stronghold in the entire Great Plains," Bill replied.

Patrick had a feeling he wasn't going to be safe for long though. But if he heard of something that happened to Zach, he wasn't the one that was going to have to worry about his safety: Elder Ezekiel was.

Pip-3000 Infotracker Note #0000

WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. ALL NON-ESSENTIAL COMPUTER, TELECOMMUNICATION, AND ELECTRICAL SERVICES HAVE BEEN DISCONTINUED FOR THE DURATION OF THE EMERGENCY. PLEASE STAND BY FOR IMPORTANT NEWS AND INFORMATION ON THIS DEVICE. NEWS AND WEATHER WILL BE PROVIDED EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The first southbound train to Fort Landon arrived early the next morning. Compared to any other train Patrick had been on since he started his trip, this was packed to the brim. Six passenger cars carrying an entire battalion of soldiers, the windows covered over with a thick blackout curtain to make sure that no light escapes out, and three cargo cars carrying food and ammo, with another two designed specifically for sleipnir's and the traditional red caboose at the very end. At the front, a car full of gravel and scrap metal was pushed ahead of the train proper to ensure that if there was any bombs planted on the track, then at least the engine and the cars behind it wouldn't blow up instantly. And just to be extra sure, soldiers with attached machine guns sat on the top of the cars, tied to a railing to ensure they don't slip off as the train puffs along. With all the extra cargo and passengers, two steam powered Royal Hudson locomotives were being used to haul the load.

"Well, they aren't kidding are they?" Vince said, looking at the heavily armed train.

"I heard stories of how many trains they lost due to sabotage and armed attacks in the last war. It's nice to see they learned the lessons from last time," Patrick replied.

They were allowed in the car that carried the officers rather than packed in with the soldiers. But when Vince was quite surprised when he got into the car.

"My god, they are all wearing skirts!" he exclaimed.

A major turned around when he heard that. "Hell no. These are kilts damnit. This is the Assiniboian Highlanders Regiment, and we just the latest in a long line of Scottish regiments in the history of… well, history!"

Patrick blinked. "But you're going to fight in that?"

The major grinned. "Of course! Get the bagpipes blaring away, give a good-ol' Celtic battle cry, we could make a dozen power armored men turn and run."

Patrick couldn't help but share in the man's confidence.

"Alright, that's enough Dennis," a female voice said.

"Yes sir," the major said, but still grinned.

The woman, also in a kilt but with the markings of a lieutenant-colonel stepped forward. "So, you must be the Auxiliary," she said, looking to Vince.

"Nope, not me. This guy is," Vince said, jerking his thumb at Patrick.

"Huh. I expected the Auxiliary to be older," she said.

Patrick just rolled his eyes, but joined the lieutenant-colonel at the back of the train, where maps were laid out. The radio was tuned to DBS, but only soft, quiet and somber music was playing. At least they weren't repeating that service had been discontinued for the duration of the emergency.

The officer in charge of the Battalion was Lieutenant-Colonel Randi Kirkaldy, who was only the latest in a long line female commanders in the Assiniboian Army, and considering the respect that most of the male soldiers around her gave, must have been doing something right, and it was not just a political maneuver. Like many of the appointments to high command posts were, for better or worse. Memories of Bomber City came back...

"I've heard a lot about you, Auxiliary," Kirkaldy said when they got sitting down at the map table. "If even a fraction of what they said is true…"

"I haven't been listening to DBS to see what they have been saying about me," Patrick said. "But my guess is that a lot of it may be a bit embellished."

"Not just the radio. The army grapevine is a big web that stretches all over Assiniboia, and news travels fast on it," Kirkaldy said. "Some of the soldiers here were sent to Brandon, so they saw first hand what you did with the Syndicate."

Patrick nodded. "That… that was a miserable thing I'd rather not deal with again." The image of The Boss still clung in his mind, the angry sneer, the scream when she died…

"But anyway, to business," the lieutenant-colonel said. "I was briefed on what is going on for the Battle of Fargo and other places, and told to tell you what you want to know. You will get your actual orders when you get to Fort Landon."

"Well, tell me all you can," Patrick said.

"Well, as of last night, Fargo is holding, though the troops are being pushed back into the city. Casualties are high on both sides there, but it sounds like the Brotherhood has the worst of it. Fort Carville is another concern, especially since they are facing the Forge, the best troops in the Brotherhood. Fort McDonald has already been lost, but that was a forgone conclusion when the war started. But, and I bet partially thanks to you and the destruction of the BoS networks in the area, there hasn't been a full-scale revolt against Assiniboia in the American districts or territories."

Patrick looked at the map, with a grey line drawn where the Brotherhood "front line" was. "Couldn't they just go around Fort Carville? Or Fort McDonald? Or just come around from the east to attack the railroad? Because they want to cut supplies to Fargo to make it fall, right?"

"That's my guess. But if they leave Fort Carville, the troops there may break out and cut them off."

"This is a lot of ground, after walking through a big chunk of it. But they all seem focused just with Fargo and this area," Patrick said, pointing to the area south of Grand Forks that lead to Fargo.

"If that's the case, why don't we attack in the west, or higher in the east?" Vince asked.

"For what?" Lieutenant-Colonel Kirkaldy asked back. "In the west, it's just small outposts, mostly to act as a tripwire if we did try something like that. But other than the ruins of Bismarck and Radiation Alley, there is almost nothing of value there. Out east, with all the lakes and animals and stuff, it's even worse. So that's why we are all focused on Fargo and Fort Landon. Fort Landon falls, Fargo's gone. If Fargo's gone, Fort Landon's virtually useless."

Patrick looked at the map again. "So where are you guys going?"

"Most likely straight into Fargo. Just hold them off as long as we can," Lieutenant-Colonel Kirkaldy said. "No great sweeping battles. It will be a long, brutal slog to keep the BoS out, or just to make sure that what they take is so costly it won't be worth it."

"Reminds me of the Battle of Manhattan," Vince said. "I didn't see it, but it's a legend in Empire City out east. Apparently it was two groups, just a bit above raider gangs really, that fought back and forth over the ruins of New York, back and forth, for months until they basically destroyed each other."

"Well I'm certain that Assiniboia can outlast the Brotherhood," Kirkaldy said. "We have the manpower and resources on our side, and they only have a minor technology lead, but a much larger, more intensively trained army at the moment. But it's like one of those candy bombs you get at the drugstore: a really hard outer shell, but just a gooey mess on the inside."

Patrick nodded. "But I also know a thing to make this war shorter." Patrick then told her about what he found out in Brahmin Crossing.

"Whoa, wow," she said, looking over the map. "That puts him right… here." She pointed to a spot in northern Minnesota. "I don't think Assiniboia has ever bothered looking there, thinking it's just a bunch of irradiated lakes and inbred families. But that's where the Elder made his headquarters, huh?"

"Seems really out of the way. He must have some good communications to be able to keep in contact with the rest of the Brotherhood from there," Kirkaldy said. "But that's something Intel never could figure out."

Eventually food was brought around: just some rations from tin cans heated up on a hotplate, but it was enough for Patrick. But what he really needed was some sleep. There were several bunks in the car, and two were cleared out to let him and Vince sleep. Though it wasn't quite big enough to let him stretch all the way, it was comfortable enough that he fell asleep the moment he hit the pillow.

He didn't wake up until the train rumbled into Fort Landon and screeched to a halt. Patrick woke up, glad that this was one of the first train rides in a while that didn't involve him being shot at. Patrick nearly lept out of the bunk, feeling refreshed after the first good sleep he had in over a week, though he could have slept for several hours more. Vince was a bit slower and more stiff as he climbed out of his bunk.

"I'm getting too old for this," Vince grumbled again as he stretched, something popping in his back. He began to cough heavily, but he managed to clear whatever was in his throat.

When they climbed off the train, they were met by more soldiers: privates and corporals spilling out of the other cars, while sergeants and lieutenants barked orders to get platoons and companies lined up. More soldiers were unloading the other cars, and at the end the sleipnir's were being unloaded. Of course the one to cause a scene would be Demon, but the cavalrymen were able to bring the barely tame bronco under control and lead to the stables.

But on the platform stood a man in a khaki with a red and gold marking on his lapel and a crossed baton topped with a crown on his shoulder, making him a lieutenant-general, along with a couple bars that were in place of the medals he would have worn, as well as a large mustache that looked like it was taken from a book that would have been ancient even before the War of 2077, with two finely groomed tips pointing upwards. Several other officers stood with him, scanning the crowd. One of them saw Patrick and Vince, and they all walked over to him.

"Auxiliary!" the man said, offering his hand, as Patrick saluted as best as he could. The General then raised his hand to return the salute, but by then Patrick had lowered his hand for the handshake that was no longer there.

But the general was quicker, and he grabbed Patrick's hand, and shook it vigorously. "Auxiliary, it's a pleasure to meet you in person." He then shook Vince's hand as well.

"Well, thank you uh, General…?" Patrick replied, wincing as he thought his arm was ripped from his socket.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Lieutenant-General Sir Julius Carry, commander of Army Group Fargo," he said, with a small smile. Patrick could see the dark bags under his eyes, and the slight twitch his arm was making. The past few days of war must have been weighing on him. "Anyway, I was informed by Lieutenant-Colonel Kirkaldy that you know something of vital importance. If you could come with me, you can tell me what it is." he said, pointing to a two story building, where the Assiniboian flag lazily flapped on a tall flagpole, and several guards, along with machine gun nests made with sandbags, all stood in front on the grass that was surprisingly green.

The entire fort was a much bigger version of the military encampment at Bomber City, just with permanent buildings in place of tents. Concrete and barbed wire walls surrounded the encampment, with more machine guns and soldiers toting missile launchers and sniper rifles patrolling the edge. More soldiers were marching drills, while others were practicing shooting, along with eating, cleaning and some were even relaxing.

The inside of the building the general lead Patrick and Vince into was a scene of activity and hurry, with soldiers in uniform, and some people who weren't in uniform, typing away at typewriters, operating several RadioGram machines (more than Patrick had ever seen in one place), and a massive, two story map of Assiniboia, and all the land stretching from Regina in Saskatchewan to Thunder Bay in Ontario, and down south to Minneapolis in Minnesota. Soldiers and civilians with ladders and large markers were showing the situation as close to real time as the complicated process of message, de-coding, and translating could take.

The grey markers that stood for the BoS was getting dangerously deep past the red and black dotted line that was the pre war "border," nearly surrounding Fargo and pushing closer and closer to Fort Landon. Fort Carville was now surrounded and cut off. The large red dot that was Fort McDonald had a large grey X placed over it, to show that it had fallen. The grey lines were getting closer and closer to Fort Landon...

"As you can see Auxiliary: we aren't exactly in the best position right now," General Carry said, pointing to the wall map, standing outside the small rope ring that was placed around the map and it's caretakers to prevent anyone from stepping on anything. "We've been doing our best to hold the line, but the Brotherhood has too many soldiers facing us, and our plans to mobilize the army to send here and the militia to protect the homeland, had been hemmed and hawed so much in Winnipeg that we were nearly caught flat-footed. But I cannot lose Fargo, as per my orders from the Government. And I can't lose Fort Landon, because then I lose Fargo." The General sighed. "Of course, it's my job to skin a brahmin while it's still kicking and mooing, so I won't worry you with that." he turned to Patrick. "But what did you learn that could be of big help?"

Patrick then told him of finding out the High Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel was in Bemidji.

The general looked confused so he turned to the map. "Where is Bemidji?" General Carry barked.

One of the civilian mapers with a ten foot pointing stick looked up, and pointed it at the spot where the Lieutenant-Colonel had pointed it earlier on the much, much smaller map on the train.

"Well I'll be damned. The bastard that started this is right there." the general said. "That's the best news I've heard all day." He then turned to a Major standing next to him. "Get me Colonel Mansfield, will ya?" The officer saluted and rushed off.

"Who's that?" Patrick asked.

"The guy in charge of the RAMP Dragoons. He and a large chunk of his force was sent here to aid in the battle wherever we see best." The General grinned. "Well, I think I know how to use them now."

Colonel Mansfield, with his square jaw, blond hair, blue eyes, in his red painted combat armor and flat brimmed campaign hat and Sam Browne belt holding his revolver, he looked like he just stepped off a RAMP recruitment poster. But he had a friendly smile, and gave General Carry a salute as he arrived.

"Reporting as ordered, sir."

"Excellent. Now, thanks to the Auxiliary here, I think we may have a plan to defeat the Brotherhood quickly." Colonel Mansfield looked to Patrick, and quickly looked him over, before pursing his lips, as if admiring what he saw before him. The General then went on to describe the plan to the Colonel, using the large map to point it all out.

Colonel Mansfield rubbed his chin when the general was done talking. "That's really risky, if damn near impossible to pull off," the RAMP Dragoon said, then flashed a predatory grin. "But that's what us Dragoons are for, eh?"

"Then I want you to organize your force, and get ready to move out," the General said. "If you want to get across the Brotherhood lines under nightfall, you have about two hours to do so. To give you cover, I'll order a push at Fargo and Camp Carville to distract the Brotherhood."

"Yes sir," the Colonel said, then turned to Patrick. "You come with me," he said, then turned around and marched off. Patrick and Vince followed.

"So, you're the Auxiliary, huh?" Colonel Mansfield said when they were out of the headquarters and marching across the parade square.

"Why? Do you think I'm a bit too young to do this?" Patrick asked.

"Nope, of course not. I think only a youngster could pull off the crazy stuff I've heard you do," the RAMP Dragoon said, with a wink. "I'm friends with Captain Januet, and he told me all about you before I was ordered here."

Patrick remembered the grumpy Dragoon that came with him to Brandon. "How is he doing?"

"Well, they had to amputate the leg that was crushed when he fell into the hole. Infection set in unfortunately. But we Dragoons take care of our own, so I'm sure he will be well provided for in the long run." The Colonel turned to Patrick. "But anyway, that's neither here nor there. We have a job to do." The arrived at a barracks with the RAMP logo painted on the side. "I'm going to tell the men what we are going to do, so you might want to make sure you got all the supplies you need. Like the general said, we should be leaving here no later than two hours." The Dragoon saluted. "But I will say; it's a pleasure to meet the Auxiliary at last." Patrick returned it, a small smile on his lips in wonder at how the hell he managed to get this far that a RAMP Dragoon was excited to meet him.

Patrick, Vince, Colonel Mansfield and two companies, equivalent of 40 men and women, rode out of Fort Landon at 2 PM on the dot. It would have been a majestic site, seeing all the RAMP Dragoons in their red uniforms and campaign hats. Some of them, the leaders of each company, carried lances with little red and white flags on the top, which struck Patrick as wildly out of date. Of course, everyone also had their revolvers and carbines. Patrick made do with his trusty .44, an assault rifle and the fancy gun he was given by the Enclave. Vince had Big Bertha, but he was also given a powerful assault rifle as well to go with it. He was even able to get a bit of practice shooting while riding his mount. Treherne was, as promised, a calm and cool sleipnir, and took the sound of gunshots in stride.

It was going to take all afternoon and most of the evening of quick riding to reach the front lines, or as much of a front line there would be in a region with so much open ground.

They ate in their saddles, something which Vince had a hard time doing. But they had to keep moving. If they stopped at all, they could be found, and it would be a disaster to the Dragoons.

They splashed across the Red River at a ford about an hour after leaving Fort Landon, and continued due east.

Vince rode up to Patrick. His handling of sleipnir's was growing much quicker than Patrick ever thought. When he mentioned that to the old, one-eyed man, Vince chortled. "I may be an old dog, but you can teach me a few new tricks."

Patrick chuckled, and they continued to ride on for a while before Vince turned to Patrick again. "You think your brother will still be there?"

Patrick thought for a bit. "I don't know. I hope so. I'm thinking we would make it Bemidji before the Paladin Lord could make it."

Vince nodded. "You know, out west, way out in California, there is another group called the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Oh?" Patrick replied.

"Yeah. I only met a couple of them, but they seem both the same and different than these guys," Vince went on. "Out west, that Brotherhood seemed more inclined on finding old technology and protecting it than expanding out in all directions. But they were also a closed-minded, insular group. I heard they once sent people who wanted to join them to a place that had been nuked in the Great War, an irradiated hole in the ground called The Glow. They called it a test, but in reality it was a suicide run. Only one person I ever heard of ever survived it was the Vault Dweller, when he needed their help to stop the Master and the Super Mutants out there."

"Do you think they are the same?" Vince asked.

"My guess is that these guys are a splinter group. This Brotherhood is willing to accept almost anyone with a two feet and a heartbeat. But it does seem odd that they go by the same name, yet are so different." Vince shook his head. "Ah, but who cares? I highly doubt I'll ever make the climb over the Rockies again to find out more about them, and it's not like the Brotherhood here is willing to sit down to shoot the breeze."

Patrick nodded. They rode for a while, Vince having another massive coughing fit.

"You said you don't think you are going to make it over the Rocky Mountains again. You seem to have the drive to do that," Patrick said.

Vince chuckled as he finished coughing. "Oh, I may want to, but my body isn't doing so good."

"No? What?"

"When I met you in Grand Forks a while ago, I told you I was setting out to see the big ol' glacier, right?" Vince asked. Patrick nodded. "Well, that's part of the story."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you see..." Vince started, then trailed off. Patrick looked over to see Vince thinking over his words. "Well… I have lung cancer."

"What?"

"Diagnosed a couple years ago," Vince said. "The Doc in Megaton in the Capital Wasteland confirmed it when I asked him what was wrong. He said he couldn't cure it without cutting my chest open, but he could mitigate it. Stimpacks, some Radaway and Rad-X, and some shots of Whiskey and I was at least able to keep on living. But going over the mountains will most likely end that string of luck: too tall, not enough air up there, and a lot of mean critters that would make short work of a single, old, nearly dead man. But it's been getting worse, just slower than it would have been if I just laid down and took it."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," Patrick said. Cancer, even though it was prevalent across Assiniboia, was still a nasty disease, and one that scientists from the Health Sciences Center had been working on for over a century now.

"I've made it this far," Vince said. "But the real reason I wanted to go up north was rumors of a pre-war research station, NorthTec. A big Canadian research firm that was apparently working on a cure for cancer. I wanted to see if they had something, maybe if not to save my life, then someone else's." He then laughed, which made him cough again. "For all I know, this is just a wild radgoose chase anyway. Most likely nothing up there but ice, ice and more ice."

Patrick swallowed. "Well, if we get out of this alive, I will gladly come along to help you."

Vince looked over, and gave a small smile. "Nah, it's alright. If this goes according to plan, you are going to have your brother back. You should go back home and rebuild your life than worry about an old man that wants to cheat death a few years more."

"No, I insist. We'll do it together." Patrick held out his hand. Vince looked down at it, then took and they shook.

The rest of the trip was very quiet as the sun went down behind them, making their shadows stretch over the dead grass and dusty ground longer and longer until soon it was gone. The moon was a thin pale sliver that night.

Patrick, with the only Pip-Boy in the group, became the navigator after dark. When they got to the ruins of a small village named Rindal past midnight, Patrick was confident they were past the Brotherhood front line, without having met a single patrol.

"Alright, 20 more kilometers to the target," Colonel Mansfield told everyone when they stopped. "Remember the plan, and good luck."

The group split up: one half went to the north east, the other to the south east. Patrick and Vince remained with Colonel Mansfield as they went to the north, circling around the target.

It took another two hours to get into place directly north of their target. The dragoons dismounted and prepared to fight as foot soldiers, while a few soldiers remained behind to hold the animals. It was a random draw, but Patrick could see the disappointment in the eyes of those that were chosen to stay behind. Vince joined the group on the way to infiltrate the base.

The dragoons, along with Patrick, began to sneak their way closer and closer to their target.

When Patrick got closer, he let out a muffled gasp.

A massive grey shapes, looking a lot like a cigar, was tied to the ground. It was an airship, and Patrick had never seen one before up close. In the last war, several of them flew up to Winnipeg and dropped bombs several times, but was used more for transporting troops and equipment. But this one was massive, bigger than almost any building Patrick had seen before, with the possible exception of the skyscrapers in Winnipeg. But it looked like one of those buildings placed on its side, and able to hold just as many people.

"Now remember, don't shoot the airship," Colonel Mansfield whispered to his troops. "It's full of hydrogen gas, and will explode easily." He then gave that grin. "But the Brotherhood bastards are fair game. Alright? Let's go!"

They snuck closer and closer to the airbase, spreading out as they went. A few Brotherhood soldiers in metal armor strolled around the base, calm and relaxed. They weren't expecting anybody. And why would they? Assiniboia was busy around Fargo protecting themselves. And who in their right mind would want a bloody airship?

Well Patrick and the Dragoons did.

They got within fifteen feet of the barbed wire perimeter and bright lights pointed in toward the airship around the Brotherhood outpost when they stopped. One soldier on guard duty was humming to himself, casually walking back and forth. He suddenly was grabbed by a figure in a shadow, went rigid and fell. A dragoon appeared from the shadow, bloody knife in hand. He then gave a short wave to the others to know that he was in.

Another Brotherhood member was taken down, leaving a large stretch of the base undefended. Patrick now began to sneak closer. The barbed wire was a full fence, and there was plenty of room for someone like himself to crawl through.

His jacket, however, had other ideas. A loose stitch caught one of the barbs, holding Patrick tight in place. He muffled a yelp in surprise, and then tried to reach up to undo the tangle. But the barb had managed to dig deep into his jacket, and was scratching his back. Patrick winced, hoping it wasn't rusty enough to give him tetanus. But eventually Patrick was able to wiggle his way out of the tight spot, and the barb let go, making the wire spring back into place.

"Hey, what was that?" someone off to the side asked. Patrick froze.

"I dunno. The wind?"

"There isn't a bloody breeze at all here," the first voice said. "I'm going to check it out."

Patrick scrambled forward as quick as he could, and then ducked behind a couple rusty barrels. The Pip-Boy on Patrick's arm suddenly began to crackle: the Geiger counter detected radiation. Patrick looked at the barrels, to see the old-world radioactive symbol marked on them. His eyes began to widen, but he couldn't move. Not yet.

The perceptive Brotherhood soldier walked to where Patrick had been. He looked over the area, and noticed the mark where Patrick was lying when he was caught, and the dirt that had been disturbed when he tried to get away.

"Who's there?" The soldier said, raising his laser rifle up. "I'm not going to ask again: where are you!"

Patrick crouched down closer to the radioactive barrels. Right now he wished he had a Rad-X or something, but he had to leave his backpack behind. He couldn't even remember if he had any with him. The Geiger counter on his Pip-Boy that was ticking so loudly to drown out the silence was still in the low region, around one to two rads a second. But enough of those seconds, and he'd be a hair's breadth away from death.

The soldier began to go around and around, searching the area. He bent down, grabbing a flashlight from his pocket and shining it at the ground at a footprint Patrick had left. He then looked ahead to see another footprint, then another, leading straight to the radioactive barrels.

The soldier began to cautiously approach Patrick. Patrick took a breath, and held it in, his hand covering the Geiger counter. It muffled the sound, and he hoped it would be enough.

The soldier was right next to the barrels, and he looked around. Patrick shivered as he willed himself to remain perfectly still, to not breath, to not even blink for being too loud.

"Hey! Reggie!" a voice called off in the distance. "What the hell are you doing?"

The Brotherhood soldier above Patrick turned around. "I think someone's here," he said.

"Aww, it's just your mind playing tricks on you again. Get over here, and finish this game with me already!"

The soldier looked around again, then sighed. "Fine, be right over." He began to walk away.

Patrick finally let his breath out as he heard the footsteps going away. Slowly, of course, just in case.

Off to the south, there was sudden gunfire. Patrick froze again. Something had gone wrong.

Several loud whistles began to blare through the night, and soon the entire base was a beehive of activity. Assiniboian Dragoons and Brotherhood soldiers began to fight, shooting at each other. The Brotherhood guys were taken by surprise, and began to fall back, or fall down and not get up again.. Patrick finally ran away from the radioactive barrels and toward the airship. Vince was soon running along beside him, firing at any target that popped up.

Colonel Mansfield was at one of the gangplanks that lead up to the airship. "Go, go, go!" he barked, pointing Patrick up the ramp that lead up. "Just don't shoot anything important looking!" He then turned around, and fired several shots with his revolver at a target.

Patrick climbed up the gangplank until he got into the cab of the airship, his revolver out and ready. Vince was right behind him. Only two people were in it, a man and a woman, both of them with an old fashioned peaked cap on their head with the Brotherhood logo on it with their usual uniforms.

"What the… who the hell are you?" the woman barked.

"I'm just commandeering this craft. Now, if you want to live, I suggest you do what you want me to do," Patrick said.

"Not if my brother's wipe you raiders out," the woman snarled.

"Raiders?" Vince asked. "Oh lady, this is a lot worse than raiders."

The faces on the pilots fell as Colonel Mansfield and four other RAMP Dragoons came up the gangplank a moment later. The Colonel was limping, a dark red patch on his black pants that was covered over by a piece of cloth. "The base has been secured," Mansfield said. "We can now proceed with the next stage."

"What are you talking about?" the female pilot asked.

"I need you to fly this Bemidji, with my friends here," Patrick said.

"Yeah? And why would I do that?" she shot back.

"Because you are dealing with the Auxiliary here," Colonel Mansfield said, pointing to Patrick. "And I'm pretty sure you've heard of a few things he's done."

The male pilot was visibly shaken. "Clarice, I think we better listen."

Clarice snarled. "Like hell I will! I would rather die than to help you Assiniboian bastards!"

Colonel Mansfield lost the smile he was well known for. "I suggest you reconsider."

"Like hell I will! For the Brotherhood!" she screamed, turning around to smash the control panel. But before she could, Colonel Mansfield, Vince and Patrick pulled the trigger on their guns at almost the same time. The triple bang was extremely loud in the small cab of the airship, and Patrick's ears were left ringing. But Clarice was stopped before she did any damage, and she slumped to the ground.

Patrick turned to the second, quieter pilot. "Now, are you going to pull any stupid stunts like your friend there?"

"N-no," he stammered. "I'll do what you ask me too."

Two of the dragoons grabbed Clarice's body, and unceremoniously threw it out onto the gangplank, and it began to roll down the inclined steps.

"Well, you know where we want to go," Patrick said. "Take us to Bemidji."

Airship was, as far as Patrick was concerned, perhaps the best way to travel. It was maybe a bit slower than Vertibird, but several times faster than sleipnir, and not quite as noisy as either. It was smoother than train, and you could go anywhere. Patrick wondered why Assiniboia had never invested in airships: it would have been easier to do a lot of stuff from moving supplies to people all over Assiniboia. He might have to ask someone in the government later.

The few dragoons, Patrick and Vince all prepared for what was to come. One of the dragoons had several pulse grenades.

"They'll make a big electric bang," he explained. "Won't harm anyone, but it will make everything electronic go out."

"Oh, it must be like this gun I got from the Enclave," Patrick said, pointing to the fancy laser rifle he had.

"But here, take one. Just in case," the dragoon said. Patrick held the long cylindrical device in his hand. He put it into an inside pocket of his jacket.

They made good time, arriving at Bemidji as the sun rose. Most of it was ruins, just like any town abandoned for any length of time after the War of 2077, but in the center of the town, with a large concrete and metal wall around it, was a large military base. Patrick couldn't make out all the details, but it was almost like a copy of Fort Landon: barracks, marching grounds, and a large building that dominated the rest of the base, a huge cathedral like building. Patrick had a pretty good guess of where the Elder made his home here.

"Okay, we are here," the pilot said as they got closer.

Colonel Mansfield turned to Patrick. He got a stimpack earlier, and his leg was a lot better now. "Well, this has gone swimmingly well," he said, looking out the window with Patrick. "But, we don't exactly have the troops to storm the place. It's a lot bigger than I expected. I'm guessing they have an entire battalion of troops there. I thought we would be just dealing with a few bodyguards." He didn't look worried though, which surprised Patrick.

Patrick turned to the pilot. "What kind of weapon systems are there on the airship?"

The pilot looked around. "Uhh… we have a few machine gun turrets along the bottom of the ship. But that's about it."

"No bombs? No cannons? No robots?" Colonel Mansfield asked.

"Nope. This was a cargo ship. All the weaponized airships are stationed further south at this time," the pilot said.

Patrick and Mansfield turned to each other.

"Shit."

The radio crackled to life. "Unidentified airship, report your name, rank and intentions," the static filled voice said.

The pilot turned to Patrick, who nodded for him to answer. The pilot picked up the radio. "This is Knight David Verone, and the Brotherhood Airship Daedalus. We have been ordered to report to Bemidji on the orders of the High Elder."

There was a long silence. Only the hum of the engines that propelled the ship could be heard.

"Do you think they fell for it?" Patrick asked.

As if an answer to the question, bright red flashes from the ground suddenly filled the air. The pilot, standing at the wheel of the craft, spun it around, making the entire craft slowly, sluggishly turn.

"What's happening?" Patrick asked, clutching to a railing on the edge of the cab.

"I think that's the answer you were looking for!" Colonel Mansfield shouted.

There was a roar, and an intense heat in the cabin, and suddenly the airship was no longer moving forward. Instead it was falling down at a steady, brisk clip.

"Oh, the humanity!" a Dragoon shouted as the entire craft fell from the sky.

"Stay calm!" someone else, most likely the pilot shouted. "The cabin is designed to withstand a fire, so you won't burn to death. Just hold on, and brace for impact!"

The ground came closer and closer, faster and faster. Patrick held onto the rail, and closed his eyes.

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #####

Brotherhood of Steel Motivational Quote of the Day:

Brave men rejoice in adversity, just as brave soldiers triumph in war.

\- Lucius Annaeus Seneca


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The command cabin landed on the ground forcefully. But it couldn't be called a crash like when a train went off a track, though most of the windows shattered from the impact. The hydrogen above them quickly burnt away, rising up due to it's lighter than air qualities. Within moments, the fire around them was nearly gone. Smoke filled the cabin, but it hadn't caught on fire.

Patrick had been toppled over from the impact, but other that some bumps and bruises, he wasn't hurt. Everyone else also seemed to be okay.

The pilot ran to the door, and slid it open. "Hurry up! Get out of here before-"

A dozen Brotherhood soldiers, three of them in power armor, surrounded the cab, pointing their weapons at the eight people inside.

"Dragoons!" one of them shouted. "He brought Dragoon's here!"

Someone then pointed to the pilot. "Traitor!"

"No, please, don't shoot!" the pilot said. "I can ex-"

He didn't get a chance to explain. Three laser bolts impacted him at the same time. There was a painful, haunting scream as the pilots entire body disintegrated into ash.

"You, dragoons, are all prisoners," one of the power armored men shouted. "Drop your weapons, and come out of their, arms up. If you don't, we shoot!"

"What do we do?" Patrick whispered to Colonel Mansfield.

The smile was gone from Mansfield's lips. "As we are told." He tossed down his assault rifle, and pulled the revolver from his holster and set it down beside it, and slowly stood up, and raised his arms, and walked out. The other Dragoons followed him, discarding their weapons and following, arms up. Patrick and Vince did the same, until they were all out, away from the smoldering wreckage. A couple Brotherhood soldiers then ran inside and collected all the weapons that were dropped, and carted them out.

"General! We caught them!" one of them turned and shouted.

Another power armored man, who was without his helmet, showing an old and scarred face, stomped forward from behind the crowd, and walked past the line of Brotherhood soldiers with their laser rifles pointed at the group of captured Assiniboians. "I'm General Abaddon to the Brotherhood of Steel, second only to the High Elder himself. And I have one, very simple question: which one of you is the Auxiliary?"

Patrick froze as he heard his title. From the mouths of most of the people he'd met so far, it was something that showed respect, fear, or admiration, or a combination of all three.

Here, however, it was most likely a death sentence.

But no one spoke.

"Anyone?" General Abaddon asked. No one replied.

"Alright then, we'll do it the hard way," he said, aiming his gun at a Dragoon, panic appearing on his face. "I'm going to count to three. One."

Patrick could feel a chill going down his back, sweat dripping down his face and not just because of the heat around him.

"Two." The general said, looking at everyone else.

"Th-"

"I'm the Auxiliary!" Colonel Mansfield barked.

Everyone turned to face him, Patrick included.

"Oh? Really now?" General Abaddon said, stomping up to him, his heavy boots snapping burnt aluminum and charred steel, looking him over. "You seem well equipped for the Auxiliary."

"I was given combat armor by the RAMP," Colonel Mansfield lied.

"Alright then. But answer me this first," the Brotherhood leader continued. "What's the name of your brother?"

Colonel Mansfield stopped. "It… I don't have a brother," he said.

The General stood there for a long moment, staring at Colonel Mansfield. "Liar!" He then raised his gun and fired point-blank into Colonel Mansfield's head. The RAMP dragoon was dead before he hit the ground. Patrick was visibly shaken as he watched the jovial dragoon fall dead because he tried to save his life.

"Alright, I will try this again," General Abaddon said, anger on his lips. "I know one of you is the Auxiliary. So tell me which one, or you will all die!"

This time all the Brotherhood soldiers aimed their weapons, picking out their targets.

Patrick looked away from Colonel Mansfield, and took a deep breath. "Zach."

The General turned around. "What was that?"

"Zach," Patrick repeated, louder this time. "Zach is my brother. I'm the Auxiliary."

General Abaddon looked at Patrick, a cruel smile crossing his lips. "Ahh, so you are the one that did so much against the Brotherhood of Steel, huh?" He then grabbed Patrick's arm. "Well, I think it's time you face the consequences for what you have done." He then turned to another Brotherhood soldier. "Take the rest to the stockade. We'll deal with them all later."

Patrick looked back to see Vince. He mouthed the words Good luck, but then he was also taken away.

Patrick was part walked, part dragged away from everyone else, and straight to the massive stone and brick pile arranged to make a dark, foreboding fortress, with towers and guard posts and small windows. It looked like a castle that was seen in the old fairytale books from before the War of 2077, just darker, more ominous and, quite frankly, evil. The weather didn't do much to dispel the notion: it was an overcast day, and quite cool: one of those days that could either have snow or rain come down from the sky. A cold wind from the north promised the former.

The entrance was flanked by guards in power armor that saluted General Abaddon as he walked by. One of them pulled a heavy steel door open to allow them to enter the building. Once they were in, the door slammed shut. Patrick jumped at the sound, while the torches on the walls flickered.

The closing door echoed through the massive, cavernous hallways. When that sound finally died down, voices that were distant and overlapping each other, to sound like a foreign language. Smooth cobblestone made up the floor, while the darker, burnt brick made up the walls. Patrick felt so small, so insignificant here.

"Like the place?" General Abaddon asked. Patrick meekly nodded, hoping it was the right answer.

"Eh, I don't. It's too big, too dramatic. Miserably cold in cold weather too," the General pronounced, as if it was the truth. "But Elder Ezekiel likes the outlandish and the bombastic, so here we are. A temple to war and destruction, built from the ruins of a hundred towns burnt in the Great War."

"Where did you get the name? That's something from the Bible, isn't it?" Patrick asked.

"Oh, yeah. Well, when a member of the Brotherhood reaches the rank of Paladin or higher, he has the opportunity to change their name to something that better reflects their personality. Some go for the literal, some for the metaphorical, some because it just sounds awesome and powerful."

"And yours?" Patrick asked.

"A bit of all of it," the General said. "Abaddon, the name of an angel who lead an army of locusts in Revelations. It means 'destroyer,' or so the scribes say." The General looked around. "Many of the stones here are from towns that I helped pacify in the name of the Brotherhood. Those that rose up against our rule, those that housed and served raiders that attacked us, and those that stood in the way of progress. It's a reminder to the Brotherhood and all that stand against us what we can do."

"That seems... fitting for you, destroying everything," Patrick said, his voice steely cold. "The man you shot had surrendered to you, you know."

Abaddon grunted. "He also lied to me. That is a breach in the code of honour of the Brotherhood, not to mention a sin in humanity itself. One that should be rooted out. By force if necessary."

"And so you killed him. Murder is a sin as well," Patrick said.

"Not when it's rooting out sin, or in a war. Both apply in that case."

"How can you say something like that with a straight face?" Patrick exclaimed. "You shot a man in cold blood because he lied to you?"

General Abaddon scoffed. "I've eradicated sin and dubious morals from the Brotherhood and the wasteland all my life. What is one more?"

Patrick then went silent.

The General guided Patrick through a maze of hallways and corridors. Other Brotherhood members, some in the uniforms he had seen so often in the field, others in red or blue robes walked by, hurrying from place to place.

They went up a flight of steps, then around another corner, then another, and down a hallway to another door. Before the General opened it, he instead stopped, and let himself out of his power armor.

When Patrick looked confused, the General shrugged. "The General only allows his bodyguards to wear power armor around him. I guess he's afraid I might try to overthrow him."

"And you wouldn't?"

"Of course not." The general was very offended. "I'm a loyal member of the Brotherhood, and he's my leader. The Chains That Bind are very strong between us. But I still follow his orders, no matter what they are." The General opened the door, and pushed Patrick inside.

It was a courtyard, with columns, flowers and plants growing in planters nestled between them, with a small pool of clear water in the center. The courtyard was open to the sky up above. The clouds had grown darker since Patrick and the General had entered the castle.

"Elder Ezekiel," General Abaddon shouted as he kneeled, his voice once again echoing off the brown and black stone. "I bring you the Auxiliary."

"You have, have you?" a voice called from the shadows. There was a three beat clicking sound from the left, and both the General and Patrick turned to see an old man in long purple robes walking up to them. "It's about damn time."

General Abaddon bowed as the Elder approached. Patrick remained standing.

Ezekiel was not a young man: He was bald, with a white goatee on his chin, wrinkles and scars all over his body, with one particularly deep one over his left eye, covered with an eyepatch much like Vince's. He had a cane, and he walked with a limp. But the one good eye was a cold, unfeeling grey, and it pierced through Patrick. Two more Brotherhood soldiers in power armor flanked him on each side, each carrying a Gatling laser minigun.

"So you are the Auxiliary. You… you have done a lot of damage to the Brotherhood. To me." His voice was hoarse, barely above a rasp.

"This is the first time I've ever met you," Patrick said, doing his best to remain calm. This man… this old, decrepit man, had done so much to kill Patrick.

"Oh, but I am the Brotherhood," he said. "You attacked my eyes and fingers, way out in Brandon, in Winnipeg, all over that accursed nation you still claim so much loyalty to. You even attacked us in our own land! The land that Assiniboia itself recognizes as ours. Those agents, those brothers and sisters you slaughtered, are as much a part of me as this hand here." He held up his hand. "But for all that… here you are. Captured. A prisoner of the people you made your enemy. And yet you could have had so much had you accepted my offer."

"You think I would ever work for you when you captured my brother?" Patrick asked. "And where is Zach? I swear to god, if you ever…"

"Oh, the kid is fine," Elder Ezekiel said. He then turned to a guard. "Bring him here." The guard saluted and walked off.

"But anyway," Ezekiel continued, walking over to a bench. "I have to say, I'm impressed at how you tried to come here, to rescue your brother and, I'm sure, to kill me." The Elder groaned as he sat himself down on the wooden bench. "I'm but an old man, one that fought for years to do right in the world."

"You launched a war against Assiniboia. You enslave children and brainwash them to fight or work for you. And you think you are doing right in the world?" Patrick asked.

The Elder chuckled. "Oh, you Assiniboians are always the same. Going on about high ideals and morals. But your kind are not much better. You put your boot on the neck of those in old North Dakota. If enough people in Assiniboia gets unruly, wouldn't your vaunted Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police just stomp and kick them down as well? The rich and powerful in Winnipeg look down on everyone else, and they trod on all of you, robbing you of your wealth and giving nothing in return. Tell me, are you any better than we are?"

Before Patrick could answer, the guard returned with Zach. The two brother's locked eyes.

Zach looked much like the picture, but the smile this time was a true, genuine smile. He sprinted to Patrick, jumped, and clutched onto his older brother.

"Patrick!" he cried, clinging to his brother tightly. Patrick in turn wrapped his arms around him. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Patrick whispered to him. He felt so skinny, so tired, so weak. What did they do to him?

"I knew you were coming," Zach whispered back.

"Alright, enough of that. Initiate, get away from him, the murderer of your brothers in arms." Elder Ezekiel barked.

When Zach didn't let go soon enough for Ezekiel's liking, he snapped his fingers. One of the power armored soldiers came up and grabbed Zach, and pulled him away. Zach let out a whimper as he dragged away. Patrick tried to follow, but he was held in place by General Abaddon.

"Move from this spot, and you are dead instantly. Got it?" General Abaddon said.

Patrick began to breath heavily as he straightened. No… so close… why?

"Patrick, Auxiliary, whatever your name is," Elder Ezekiel said, his voice deep and clear, pointing his cane at Patrick. "You are guilty of war crimes against the Brotherhood, espionage, and murder. The punishment, as outlined in the Codex, is death."

"Wait, you can't do this… summary execution!" Patrick shouted. "I'm a prisoner of war!"

"You are not an official member of the Assiniboian Army or of the RAMP, are you… Auxiliary?" Elder Ezekiel grinned. "But because you aren't tied to any legal body, you are little better than a spy. And espionage alone is a death sentence."

Patrick turned to Zach. Zach's eyes were wide in horror, and tears were streaming down his face. He tried to not burst into tears.

"Why would you kill me in front of my brother?" Patrick barked.

"To show him. The Brotherhood is not tied together by ties of kinship. We are a Brotherhood that is tied to one thing: each other. You are not part of the Brotherhood of Steel, so you are forfeit."

The two power armored guards lifted up their Gatling lasers, and began to rev them up, the steel barrels flashing in the little torchlight that filled the room. The hand that held Patrick from his brother was gone: General Abaddon had wisely moved out of the way.

Patrick took a deep breath, and tried to stay still. "Well fine then. But I have one more thing for you all." Patrick reached into his jacket, and pulled out the pulse grenade, his finger on the trigger, then rolled it toward the guards. "Catch!"

The two power armored soldiers let go of their guns as they realized what it was. But before they could get away, it exploded, a bright blinding light filling the courtyard. Their suits were frozen instantly in the last pose they held, that of panicked fleeing. The two massive power armored men teetered off balance, then fell over, the soldiers inside now stuck inside, unable to escape. Their muffled cries for help was all that came from them.

In the confusion, Patrick lept forward, and grabbed one of the laser Gatlings, groaning as he lifted the heavy weapon off the ground. He aimed it at Elder Ezekiel and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The pulse grenade had damaged the guns.

He tossed it away. Elder Ezekiel was still sitting there, stunned. Patrick went up to the old man, his fists clinched, his face heating up in anger.

"Patrick! Behind you!" Zach cried out.

Patrick spun around, in time for General Abaddon to punch Patrick in the face. It wasn't a light one either, and Patrick went sprawling, his back landing on the foot of one of the incapacitated power armored soldiers. He cried out in pain.

General Abaddon came up to Patrick. "You bastard," he said, picking Patrick up by his jacket. "You are truly no better than any other wasteland raider or tribal in this world. Have you no honor?"

Patrick grunted in pain, but he did his best to scowl at the general. "Honor? You use that word, but you don't know what that is, do you?"

The general let go with one hand, and slammed his fist into Patrick's gut, making Patrick keel over on the floor. "A code of conduct to do what is right!" he shouted.

Patrick tried to catch his breath, but the General picked him up again. "So… tell me… how is this honorable right now?"

"Because Honor is not what others think, but what you do. I am death to my enemies, but loyal to my friends and comrades. You are not my friend. You are not my comrade in arms. You are my enemy."

"What does your code of honor say about fighting?"

Abaddon tossed Patrick with a powerful throw, the Auxiliary crashing to the paved ground in agony.

"To fight for a cause, to fight fair, to…"

"Well," Patrick groaned, as he sat up. "Is this particularly fair?"

That made the General freeze in his tracks. "What?"

"You're not going to listen to this Assiniboian scum, are you?" Elder Ezekiel shouted. "You have a gun. Shoot him!"

General Abaddon turned to Elder Ezekil and growled. "You stay out of this. He attacked my honor, and I'm going to make him pay." He then turned to Patrick.

"Very well. If you want to fight with honor, we'll do it with fists." The General helped lift the Auxiliary up, much to Patrick's surprise, then took off his cloak and metal armor revealing a heavily muscled chest and stomach. He then unholstered his gun and set it to the side.

Patrick took a deep breath, feeling something inside of him crack and pop. That didn't sound good. But he raised his fists, to prepare for the fight.

Patrick swung first, but Abaddon quickly sidestepped the swing, and replied with a punch to Patrick's stomach. The air forced out of his lungs, Patrick fell, but rolled out of the way before Abaddon could grab him. Patrick jumped back to his feet, and dodged a swing at his head and another jab at his stomach. This time Patrick balled his fist and smashed it straight into Abaddon's jaw, making the larger man stagger in surprise. But that really, really hurt Patrick's hand, and he grabbed it in pain.

Abaddon didn't miss the chance, he stood up, and snatched Patrick in a bear hug, and with a heave back, suplexed the Assiniboian into the ground behind him.

Patrick lay in a puddle, barely able to move. He tried to get up, but the Brotherhood general picked him off the ground, and held him high in the air. He then tossed Patrick into a column, smashing into it and making the stone crumble. Patrick cried out in pain.

"Well, we fought with honor," Abaddon said. "But you were no match for me." Abaddon went back to the pile of clothes, and grabbed his gun, a large, powerful handgun. "But enough of your games. It's time for you to die."

Patrick groaned, trying to stand up. Blood was dripping from his nose and cuts all over his body. He staggered up, using the pillar he just smashed against to stand up

"And… so," Patrick said, with a groan, pushing himself up as straight as he could. "So, what makes you better than me? You shot a defenseless man after he was promised a chance to live. That… I think is a war crime, isn't it? Not very honorable, I would say."

General Abaddon paused as he raised the gun to Patrick. "Well… no… because…"

"Because he gave up his honor when he lied, because lying is a sin, right?" Patrick said.

"Of course," Abaddon said, wondering what the Auxiliary was saying.

Patrick leaned himself up against the column. He could taste blood in his mouth. "What is the definition of a lie?"

"It's a false statement," General Abaddon stated.

"Then… you lied, didn't you?"

"What, no I…" General Abaddon began.

"You told him he would be safe. Then you killed him. You. Fucking. Lied." Patrick said, grunting every word. Zach raced to Patrick, to help him stand up.

"No… I… I… no…" General Abaddon said, trying to wrap his mind around the philosophical issue he just found himself in.

"You are just like everyone else on this planet. You are not free from sin, even in your demented, deprived logic," Patrick said, with Zach at his side. "You found a reason to kill that unarmed dragoon. And that applies to you just the same."

General Abaddon stumbled backwards. He was stunned, confused: his whole world shattered in an instant. "I… I…"

"How many times have you justified killing for lying? For killing? Did you ever lust after someone? Make a plan to take over something that wasn't yours?" Patrick continued. "How about greed? Sloth? Envy? Pride? Wrath?"

General Abaddon was a broken man by now, on the verge of totally breaking down.

"Oh suck it up you pansy," Elder Ezekiel said, standing up and walking over. "You are a warrior. Warriors only do two thing. Fight. Win. You fought, you won. You are good enough."

General Abaddon was breathing in ragged breathes. "No… no… no!" He turned to Elder Ezekiel. "What makes us better than the damn animals then if that is all we are? Better than the wasteland, than fucking Assiniboia!" He looked at his shaking hands. Was he seeing all the blood he had spilled now? All for something that was taken away from him.

General Abaddon looked at the gun in his hands. "I have betrayed myself. I have betrayed the Brotherhood. Maybe this will make up for it."

"No, you fool-!" Elder Ezekiel shouted.

But Abaddon put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. The bullet passed through his brain, and out the back of his head, making it explode into a million bloody pieces. The standing body of the general then collapsed to the ground.

Everyone stood there for a moment in the silence after the gunshot, ears ringing.

Elder Ezekiel was the first to move, moving closer to the body of his second-in-command. "You… you killed him."

"He killed himself," Patrick growled. "He at least had a bit of morality left in his body. Unlike you."

Elder Ezekiel reached down and grabbed the gun. But before he could even aim it, Patrick ran up and kicked the cane out that Ezekiel was leaning on, making the old man sprawl out on the ground, the gun just out of reach of the old man.

Patrick turned to Ezekiel, fury consuming him. "The Brotherhood - you, as you like to call it - did so much to me and my family." he picked up the cane, a finely carved, well used piece of wood. It would do.

"You started this war because of your delusions!" Patrick said, bringing the cane, handle out, down on the kneecap of the old man, making him howl in pain.

"The attempts to recruit and blackmail me to join you!" Patrick continued, bringing the can on Ezekiel's other knee, making the man cry out again.

"You have killed hundreds, consigned thousands to pain and agony by helping the Syndicate in Brandon, and all the other raiders and gangsters!" Patrick brought the cane down again on the man's chest.

"Patrick?" Zach called out.

"You tried to undermine a nation, while we were both at peace!" He swung the cane like a golf club at the man's head, making it snap as it was forced away.

"Patrick?" Zach said again, louder

"The raiders you hired to kidnap Zach and kill my grandparents!" He then began to whack and beat the old man lying on the ground.

"Patrick!" Zach screamed.

Patrick stopped, and turned around to his brother. Zach stood there, eyes wide as he watched his brother bludgeon an old man to death.

"Patrick… stop. Please," Zach pleaded.

Patrick looked at Zach, then at the blood on the cane, and the mess of a man on the floor.

Patrick let go of the cane, and stepped away from the severely injured man. He then walked over to Zach.

"Patrick?" Zach asked. "Can we go home now?"

Patrick took a deep breath, and nodded. "We can. Yes."

Patrick stood up, and began to walk away, to the door that brought them here.

There was a gasp behind them. Patrick turned around to see Ezekiel, nearly dead and bleeding all over, grabbing the gun and turning around to fire it.

"You... are too... soft hearted," Ezekiel groaned. "And you... will pay for that."

The elder pulled the trigger. Zach screamed as the bullet struck him in the leg.

Patrick caught his brother, who was crying in agony at the bullet, lodged in his leg.

Patrick roared, and raced toward Ezekiel, and kicked the gun away.

"Okay, no more!" Patrick shouted. "I'm ending this once and for all." He reached for his wallet, and pulled out the card

"You going to kill me?" Ezekiel gasped. "With that?"

"Oh yes. I'm going to kill you. All of you." Patrick said, lifting up his Pip-Boy and adjusting the frequency on the radio.

"This is the United States Strategic Air Command Computer Automated Launching System," a female robotic voice said. "Awaiting authorization."

"Code 522-665-728-786," Patrick read into the speaker installed on his Pip-Boy.

"Please stand by, verifying code." the voice said. There was some whirring and static. "Code Accepted: Welcome: Mr. President. Please select one of the following options: Launching a Full Strike on One Target, please say one. Launching a Full Strike on Multiple Targets, please say two. Launching a Limited Strike on One Target, say three. Launching a Lim-"

"Three," Patrick said.

"You have selected: Launching a Limited Strike on One Target. Is this correct?"

"What are you doing?" Ezekiel croaked.

"Yes." Patrick replied.

"Excellent!" the computer voice cheerfully exclaimed. "Please say the name of the option you would like to target today."

"Bemidji, Minnesota," Patrick said. Ezekiel's eyes went wide.

"Calculating… please stand by," the computer voice said. More clicks and whirls.

"You… what are you doing?"

"I'm ending this, once and for all, like I said," Patrick said.

"But… you…"

"Target location identified. Warning: this is in an area designated as part of the United States of America. Do you wish to continue?"

"No!" Ezekiel screamed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear that."

"Yes," Patrick said.

"Confirmed. Targeting: Bemidji, Minnesota. Estimated flight time: Twenty-five minutes. Do you wish to continue?"

"No!" Ezekiel screamed again, trying to claw at Patrick. Patrick just took a step away to avoid him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear that."

"Yes!" Patrick said.

"Command Accepted." There was a pause. "Awaiting Secondary Authorization."

"Wait, what?" Patrick said,

"Awaiting Secondary Authorization. Launch cannot continue until Confirmation from Secondary Authorization."

Patrick suddenly realized: the only other person he knew with a code was Colonel Granger, currently lying dead somewhere in the middle of a heavily irradiated Vault.

"Shit!" Patrick exclaimed.

"So, your brilliant little plan failed, huh?" Ezekiel croaked, coughing as he smirked at Patrick. "Any moment now, a loyal brother will be coming to provide the reports of the battles today. And he will find everything that happened. And he will summon everyone else to avenge me…" Ezekiel coughed again, and then gave a laugh. "You will not live to see Assiniboia fall!"

"Code 982-746-019-736," a hoarse, gravelly voice came in over the speaker.

Patrick looked down at the speaker. "Who is that?"

"Please stand by, verifying code," the female voice came back to life. "Code Accepted: Welcome: Chairman of Joint Chiefs of Staff. Secondary Authorization Required. Do you approve designated targets?"

"Yes," the hoarse voice said again.

"Confirmed. Missile launched. Estimated time to impact: twenty-two minutes. Have a nice day!"

Patrick turned to the clock. It was 4:38 pm.

"Zach! We got to go!" Patrick said, running over to his brother.

"What's happening?"

"I just launched a nuke here."

"What?" Zach exclaimed.

"It's the only way to make sure you or me are never hurt again, okay?" Patrick said.

"But… you…"

"Look, I'm sorry. I did a lot of things. Bad things. But also good things. All to find you. But… Let this be the last bad thing, okay?" Patrick said, pleading with his brother.

Zach swallowed. "I… I understand."

"Then let's go!" Patrick said, pulling open the door, then grabbing his brother and carrying him out of the room.

"No, no, no!" Ezekiel called after them. "Don't you leave me here!"

Patrick turned around. "Then maybe you should have accepted my offer." Patrick slammed the door shut, the old, wounded man screaming after him.

Patrick and Zach tried to run as fast as they could down the hallways they came earlier, but he soon got lost. He looked at the Pip-Boy. 4:40.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Someone in a red robe asked as they walked by, a scribe of some kind.. "Aren't you the guy that was being taken by General Abaddon earlier? And is the little guy hurt?"

"Yes, and now he's dead, and I'm free, and a nuke is coming here!" Patrick said.

"What? An atomic bomb?"

"Yes! Now, help me and my brother get out of here, and you'll be safe, okay?"

The Scribe was clearly panicked. "O-okay, follow me!"

The scribe turned around and began to run down a hallway in the opposite way that Patrick and Zach came earlier.

"This way, let's go!" the scribe said, turning down another hall. Patrick and Zach followed, but then the Scribe stopped

"What are you doing?" Patrick said. The time was now 4:42. "We got about twenty minutes!"

"I'm going to warn everyone first, okay?" The scribe said. There was a red panel on the wall with a glass case and "WARNING SYSTEM" etched on it. The scribe grabbed the small hammer on the side, smashed the glass, and pushed the button.

A siren began to wail off in the distance. Through the echoing stone halls, cries of panic came up.

"Okay, follow me!" The scribe shouted, and they continued to run.

Soldiers and scribes were also running around now, shoving past each other. Men and women screamed as they tried to get out of the building. Patrick, still holding Zach as tight as he could, continued running after the scribe.

Finally they made it out, and began to sprint dead east. The scribe, however, ran to the south. Patrick called to stop him, but the scribe continued running. Patrick sighed, and continued running. The clock now said 4:45. Seventeen minutes.

"Patrick," the gravelly voice came over the radio again. "There will be a couple vertibirds there. They should be there any moment."

"Who are you?" Patrick asked, still running as far away from the building as he could get.

"Don't you recognize me?" the voice said.

"No, you sound like a ghoul."

"Well, I am. This is Colonel Granger," he said.

Patrick stumbled and stopped, nearly dropping Zach., panting heavily. "What? You… you were locked in the Vault!"

"I was, yes. But I'll tell you more later. Just get the hell out of there!"

"Patrick!" Zach said. "We got to go, right?"

Patrick looked at the Pip-Boy. 4:51. Twelve minutes. He began to run again.

"Wait a minute, where's Vince? Where are the dragoons?" Patrick spun around, and looked.

He saw four men in red combat armor and a man in a trench coat with an eyepatch were racing from another building, firing guns they must have stole to ward off any pursuers. But nobody was worrying about them now. One of the dragoons saw Patrick, so directed everyone's attention to him. They all raced after.

"Auxiliary!" they shouted. "What's going on?"

Patrick gave a wry smile. "The Final Resort."

Vince began coughing. "Well, I'm not a marathon runner anymore, I'll tell you that."

"Okay, how are we getting out of here?" A dragoon asked.

Two Vertibirds came in from the north east as they were talking, their rotors kicking up dust and sand as they got closer.

"That way!" Patrick shouted, pointing at the flying contraptions. It was 4:57.

The aircraft got closer. Patrick and the dragoons began to wave and shout to get the pilot's attention. After what felt like forever, they were noticed. One of them peeled off and headed straight for the group, and swooped down low. The other circled around and began to head back the way it came.

An Enclave soldier was hanging out the side of the open side. He motioned for the group to come up. Patrick, Zach, the scribe, and the dragoons all raced for the Vertibird. Patrick grabbed Zach, and nearly threw him in. The dragoons climbed in as best as they could into the hovering vertibird. The scribe had a gun pointed at him, but Patrick batted it away. "He's with me!"

Patrick was last. Everyone was fastened with a safety line to make sure that if something happened, they wouldn't plummet to the ground so far below.

"Alright, let's get out of here!" the soldier said. As if on cue, the vertibird turned 180 degrees, and headed in the opposite direction they came from. The engines were racing faster than Patrick ever heard them, trying to get as far away as possible. The wind that came into the cab was like a tornado, and Patrick had to hold his hat on his head to make sure it didn't fly away.

"Patrick… are we flying?" Zach, who was sitting right next to his brother asked, shouting as loud as he could to be heard. His eyes were wide, not in fear or terror or sadness, but in amazement and wonder. But he looked woozy, and the wound on his leg was still bleeding.

"Yes. Yes we are," Patrick said. He looked at his Pip-Boy again. 5:02.

"Do not look at the bright light! Do not"

There was a flash. Patrick closed his eyes, and clutched his brother as tight as he could.

Then a roar, a loud, echoing roar that went on forever, as the nuclear bomb struck home. The vertibird shuddered in air, bouncing back and forth. Everyone clung on as tight as they could. Bemidji was no more.

The vertibird was now at least twenty miles away from the detonation zone, and only then did it slow down, and slowly turn around. Patrick and everyone else watched in silence as the orange and grey mushroom cloud rose over what had been the base of the Brotherhood of Steel. After they watched for a few minutes, the mushroom rising high into the air, the sides of the Vertibird were closed, and it turned around again, and headed straight for Winnipeg.

Vince looked down to Zach. "So, is this your brother?"

"Yep," Patrick said, holding Zach close, as the Enclave soldier did his best to look after the gunshot wound that Zach got earlier. "Thank you so much for helping me Vince," Patrick said.

Vince smiled, then began to cough. "Well, it was nothing."

"Now, I got to hold my end of the bargain up," Patrick said. "Let's go find that NorthTec place when we get back."

"No. No," Vince said. "Like I said, you don't have to. Besides, you have your brother to look after now. Do that first." Vince smiled. "I think I got a bit more life in me anyway." He stood up, and walked to the other side of the Vertibird to chat with one of the dragoons.

The soldier finished patching up Zach, and went back up to the front of the Vertibird. Patrick and Zach were left alone now.

"So, what did you do to find me?" Zach asked Patrick.

"It's a long story," Patrick replied.

"Well I want to hear it."

"Eventually, I'll tell it all." Patrick said, jostling the hair on his brother like used to do. It was too short to do it right though, much to Patrick's disappointment.

"But, like I said: I did a lot of bad things, and a lot of good things," Patrick said. "I only hope that the good things outweigh the bad."

"I'm sure they did," Vince said. "The Elder wasn't a nice person anyway, starting the war on Assiniboia. And taking me."

Patrick gave a chuckle. "That's an understatement, you could say."

Zach began to doze off in Patrick's arms. He didn't mind.

He came so long, and here he was: his brother was safe and sound. All that work, all the fighting, the war he fought against all that stood in the way. All the victories and defeats. All for his brother. His family.

Was there anything else worth fighting a war for?

He leaned his head up, and looked to the roof.

"War. War never changes."

Pip-Boy 3000 Infotracker Note #0001

Greetings, Vault Participant! There has been a detection of a nuclear missile in flight headed for the United States, so this is a warning that you should seek out your designated Vault as quickly as possible. Do not delay, or you may face total atomic annihilation!

And welcome to Vault H!


	39. Epilogue and Writer's Notes

Fallout Assiniboia: Epilogue

And so Patrick Morrison returned home to Melita with his brother to start a new life. And the Auxiliary entered the annals of the Wasteland: the hero of Assiniboia, the man that fought raiders, deposed tyrants, destroyed gangs, found new friends, and stood up to the biggest threat that Assiniboia ever faced, and destroyed it. The image of the Auxiliary on top of his fearsome, wild sleipnir Demon was permanently seared on the collective consciousness of Assiniboia, a story shared with travelers, traders, young children, and anyone who cared to hear a daring tale of adventure. Soon it became hard to tell what was truth and what was myth. But that's how storytelling goes.

It wasn't the end of the Auxiliary's adventures. The long time he spent away from home had given him the itch to travel, to explore. And so he did. But that's a story for another day.

 **Brotherhood of Steel** \- The death of Elder Ezekiel and his second command General Abaddon at Bemidji crippled the Brotherhood. Within days, the morale of the troops that were fighting Assiniboia fractured, as ambitious leaders held in check by the tyranny and terror of Ezekiel sought to lay claim to the leadership of the Brotherhood, and they ignored the war Ezekiel started. But the splinter faction of the splinter faction itself began to fracture instead, and soon the Second Brotherhood-Assiniboian War ground to an end, while the Brotherhood Civil War took its place. It would be decades before the last of the splinter groups would be brought to heel, but even longer after that before it could pose a threat to Assiniboia, which had grown by leaps and bounds since. The Brotherhood wisely stayed out of the Assiniboian's way.

 **Assiniboia** \- The Week Long War, as it was also called, ended before it could really start. While Fargo had been nearly destroyed, the collapse of the Brotherhood ended the war as a great victory to Assiniboia. The Government of Prime Minister Hawkson would continue for another nine years, but during that time the demand for reforms, especially in the American districts and territories, and the harsh treatment of those areas, led to the fall of his government, and the election of a new Prime Minister that promised long overdue reforms in everything from government, economics and the military. By the middle of the twenty-third century, Assiniboia was strong, united, and free, and pushing once again in all directions, sending traders, settlers and peacekeeping forces to push the Wasteland back just a bit more.

 **Melita** \- With the collapse of the Brotherhood and the opening up of Minot Air Force base, trade in the southwestern corner of Assiniboia began to flourish again. While it had always been a small town since long before the War of 2077, by 2250, under the leadership of Mayor Zach Morrison, it was one of the largest and richest settlements in Western Assiniboia, rivaling Brandon, and stretching for miles into the surrounding prairie. Every year, Melita hosts Auxiliary Days, remembering the local hero that had saved many of the children from the town, and saved the nation of Assiniboia itself.

 **Waskada** – Although the raiders were driven away from the town of Waskada, no attempts to resettle the town were made for years. Finally, in 2245, as Melita grew bigger and needed a bigger food source, Waskada was re-settled as a small farming town, this time with a full time RAMP detachment.

 **Metigoshe** \- The coal mining town finally did get its water chip, and pumped clean water once again. However, the coal began to run out in the 2230s, and soon the town, never a great place to live in the first place, eventually died, with Melita taking up its mantle as the capital of the district in 2232.

 **Turtle Town** – The decision by Clarice Fairbank to not allow the peaceful tribals from the International Peace Garden to join their town was, at first, seen as a smart move to ensure the town's survival and, in some of the more extreme residents, 'purity.' However, in the Second Assiniboia-Brotherhood War, bandits sponsored by the Brotherhood of Steel finally managed to destroy the irrigation system and cut the train line around Turtle Town, cutting the town off for months on end. Drought, famine, isolation, and the lack of another resource for trade, sounded the death knell of Turtle Town, even after the rail line was fixed. Most of the residents went east or west, settling in Melita, Metigoshe or Mord-Wink, trying to find somewhere to survive. Clarice spent the rest of her days in her hotel and store with fewer and fewer customers, cursing herself and thinking of what could have been. She is still waiting for one man to come back, though to apologize or to kill him, no one knew. That man never showed up.

 **Mord-Wink** \- The revelation of cannibals not only hidden in their midst, but also that they ran the biggest hotel in town and fed the missing persons to their guests horrified and shocked Mord-Wink. The sensationalist trial resulted in Hanny and Don being given the death penalty, one of the first times in decades it had been given, and were executed at Stony Mountain Prison. The town would live with the shame of being a cannibalistic town for a generation afterward, but some in the town would embrace the designation (and the cash from the tourism of the "last cannibals of Assiniboia"), turning the old hotel into a haunted house that continues to scare and delight those brave enough to venture into its halls.

 **Vault H** – With the Overseer deposed after the revelations of his illegal activity, there was a lack of leadership in Vault H for a long time, with Overseers being cycled through power as they were elevated, had their dirty pasts exposed, and forced to resign, before at last Doctor Gladys Johnson took over. Her unbound curiosity in robotics and computer science, aided by Brotherhood scribes and Enclave personal seeking amnesty and a new home, led to a renaissance of technology all over Assiniboia, achieving hi-tech advances that haven't been seen since the Great War. Although overly devoted to testing and what she called "science," which sometimes led to spectacular accidents that became infamous due to the media attention, perhaps the most famous result was "Gladys' Easy Cake Mix," which became a necessity for any party in Assiniboia for generations to come.

 **Atwood** – When a tribal and minister presented themselves to the RAMP detachment in Morris, few knew that this was going to become the biggest scandal to rock the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police. Julie Herrow's treason trial was a media sensation, at first with the stories of a Christian minister seeking to make Atwood leave the nation and threaten Assiniboian holdings to the south, but as the sordid details of Sergeant Kirk Black's dealings in Atwood and area were revealed (including a star witness for the defense from the Auxiliary), the case against Julie Herrow was thrown out. Sergeant Black was dishonorably discharged and tried, and sentenced to life in prison, where he continues to rot today. Many other RAMP officers would be accused of corruption as well in the months to come, becoming a huge crisis in confidence in the police that was supposed to protect Assiniboia. It also lead to the RAMP Reform Act of 2223 and a more strict and demanding moral code for those that would don the Red Serge. Atwood is still a small town, serving as a way point for trains, boats and caravans, but the RAMP ensure that only the best are assigned there due to previous history

 **Derek** \- The tribal who was exiled soon found himself wandering across Assiniboia: doing jobs here and there, helping those that needed it. It was years later, when he was in Melita, that he found out the the Auxiliary person people talked about was PatrickMorrison. He eventually found his old friend, and they went traveling again, exploring as far south as Chicago. However, it was there that Derek's life ended, when a super mutant fired a missile that exploded next to him. PatrickMorrison could only hope that Derek would be forgiven for what he had done in this life when the tribal finally met the Great One face to face.

 **Great American Caravan Company** – Soon after Patrick's arrival with at the GACC, the company completely folded when it's owner Kevin Verman and his robots seemingly disappeared, running from the real or imagined Fist of Steel retaliation. The RAMP was furious that the man who may have been responsible for smuggling so much illegal contraband could get away and not face justice, but in the end the matter would fade from view as more pressing concerns rose up. Five years later, a new caravan company operating in old Montana and Saskatchewan, called the Western Association of Caravaners would rise up, and soon monopolize the region, eventually moving to the north and west. But the company would never try to reach Assiniboia, which left some traders wondering. But it's owner, Klein Vandendorpe, would forbid his traders from going Assiniboia, for reasons no one would ever know.

 **Camp Shilo** – The massive fallout shelter that had been forgotten about for years before being rediscovered by the Auxiliary led to an expedition by the Assiniboian Museum of Man and Nature in 2223 to explore and excavate any technology at the base. While much had been destroyed or fell apart due to age, many pre-War of 2077 artifacts had been uncovered, including many documents and files on the last years of Canada before and after the US Annexation. Most of the giant radgophers that had grown up in the base due to the broken Auto Food Processor died within a few weeks after the machine was shut off. The survivors, which only did mostly due to cannibalism, were easily hunted down by local farmers and an RAMP team, leaving the base free of pests. The Assiniboian military would make use of part of the base to secure their hold on Brandon in the future, and another section would be used as a new, safe home away from Winnipeg, while a memorial to the forgotten Canadian resistance fighters that lived and died in the shelter was erected near the entrance that Patrick found.

 **Brandon** \- The death of The Boss at the hands of the Auxiliary lead to The Syndicate quickly falling apart and turning on each other. Only the influence of Deer Wing and the arrival of a "Peacekeeping" force of the Assiniboian Army and RAMP prevented the downtrodden citizens of The Rez from engaging in a huge orgy of destruction and violence. As per the deal that the Auxiliary proposed, a referendum is held in 2221, and the vote is 52% in favor of joining Assiniboia. Deer Wing would represent Brandon for the next fifty-nine years in Winnipeg until she passed away from cancer. While the memories of The Syndicate tarnished the city and its inhabitants for years, eventually Brandon became a major transportation and economic center to the western part of Assiniboia after the UAR was allowed to rebuild and replace much of the track they were unable to use for years, and a base for further Assiniboian expansion into Saskatchewan. Within 25 years of the Auxiliary's actions, Brandon is a rich, prosperous city, with a productive and freedom loving populace.

 **The Syndicate** \- Many of the men and women affiliated with The Syndicate fled the destruction of their center of power. Some sought to assimilate into Assiniboia, other's trekked south or west to find new places to control, and more went to Winnipeg. But it wouldn't save them from revenge. A life long campaign by Running Eagle to hunt down, find and bring to justice the remnants of The Syndicate that remained in Assiniboia or within reach of the Dominion was a captivating, emotional and closely followed popular sensation. As news of the work the vigilante was accomplishing reached the people, he would eventually write a book entitled Ensuring Freedom, though his methods of dealing with the Syndicate, often extrajudicial and violent, would raise questions for years to come. One Syndicate member did manage to escape Running Eagle for years, leading to a long, and increasingly desperate hunt all across North America, before it was finally settled near the city of Shady Sands in the New California Republic in 2260, a year before The Chosen One arrives at the capital of the NCR. In a scene out of an old Western holotape, Running Eagle shot the last known member of the Syndicate in a duel outside the city walls at noon. He then holstered his gun, and began the long trek back to Assiniboia, where history then lost track of him.

 **Minot Air Force Base** \- After 140 years of isolation, Minot AFB eventually decided to try the whole "work with other people" thing. The engineers and pilots of Minot eventually agreed to work with Assiniboia and the Enclave, and they worked on building Project Pegasus. While the aircraft was successful, it was too expensive to run, and eventually it was scrapped. Instead, Minot became a hub for the development of new airships, ones that, hopefully, could avoid the fate of the more destructible Brotherhood versions. It remains to be seen if the new "Minotships" will be successful or not, as the first trial version exploded near Radiation Alley, and it was impossible to get all the pieces. But research and development continues to this day.

 **Hardingville** \- The closed minded and prejudiced people of Hardingville greeted the news of the sudden disappearance of the super mutants from New California with relief, glad that the ugly monsters to the east were gone for good. But almost as soon as the super mutants left to go south, karma seemed to rear its head and strike back at the survivors of Vault 53. Overseer Kildaer, the strong hand that lead the town for years, passed away in her sleep just a few months after Patrick showed up. But she had not named a successor, throwing the town into chaos. Crops then began to fail as animal and raider attacks on the irrigation systems destroyed them, leading to starvation when rations were cut. When desperate expeditions went out to try to trade or ask for help from their only friends in the Brotherhood of Steel, they were shocked to find the Brotherhood was defeated by Assiniboia, and was now fighting itself, and could spare no assistance. The hatred against Assiniboia was so great that even the thought of asking for help was considered treasonous. As if that wasn't enough, the deathclaws and other monsters that the super mutants had kept away from Hardingville soon found the weak, ill equipped humans were easy prey, and descended on the town. By 2229, the last few survivors, about 40 or 50 men, women and children, finally had enough, and fled north. The caravan was caught in a radiation storm blown in from Radiation Alley. While most died, 18 were turned into Ghouls, and had to seek refuge with Minot AFB, a place that just a few years earlier they would rather have erased from the face of the earth. The irony was not lost on anyone.

 **New California** \- The super mutants in New California, lead by Samuel, finally gave up on the town built near the crater that was Bismarck. Despite the super mutant's success at growing crops and raising and training sleipnirs, the hostility of the Brotherhood of Steel and Hardingville meant that, despite the best hopes, the super mutants would never find peace. But while many of the mutants wanted to destroy all humanity for the pain and suffering and isolation (and the legacy of the Unity and the Master were still strong), the memories of Patrick and his efforts to bring peace always provided a bright hope spot. While some stories would come to Assiniboia over the years, eventually they were lost to history. Patrick always had an inkling to travel south to find the new town of super mutants, but despite years of asking and searching, he never did find out what happened to them.

 **Bomber City** \- Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford was, as predicted, made a hero to Assiniboians for being killed by a the Dakotan Resistance Movement. While the murderer was never caught, the "survivors" of the ambush, which included Patrick, were instrumental in trying to convince the army and the government to be more lenient to the American territories, slowly ending the long standing feud between former Canadians and Americans, and eventually lifting Martial Law in the American districts and territories.

What truly happened that night in Bomber City was only uncovered 25 years after the events. The work by a freelance reporter for the Winnipeg News Network which involved interviews with the men of Rochford's battalion, while doing research on the Rochford's, a member of whom had just been elected Prime Minister. However, the Assiniboian Army, by order of General Carlson, suppressed the report, classifying the document until 2263, long after Carlson and the majority of the men involved that night would be dead. But the efforts of General Carlson had been instrumental in getting reforms passed that took promotion for all but the very highest ranks out of the hand of politicians when the failings of the army in the Second Brotherhood-Assiniboian War were documented. Carlson died in 2254 satisfied that someone like Rochford would never lead a battalion again.

 **Kildonan** \- With Assiniboia no longer having to worry about the Brotherhood, soon moves and plans were made to deal with the gangs in Kildonan. However, even as those plans were made, the fighting between the Five Gangs reached a bloody, brutal crescendo. In the end, the Mallers, with their close ties to Assiniboia, would eventually come out on top. After the brutal fighting in the days before the Second Brotherhood-Assiniboian War, the other gangs were in no position to resist. While Kildonan is still under the control of gangsters, at least they were Assiniboian allied gangsters.

 **The Enclave** \- The remnants of the Enclave eventually found their way to Assiniboia, with a good chunk deciding to stay in Brahmin Crossing and the rest going to the old Airport in Winnipeg. While Assiniboia was suspicious, even hostile for years thanks to the aftermath of the coup, eventually peace was made with all involved. The Enclave Army, with their power armor and vertibirds, eventually became a major part of the Assiniboian Army, serving as shock troopers as the nation expanded. Under Acting President Elizabeth Morgan, the small number of Enclave Americans began to blend in with Assiniboia: marrying locals, investing in business, entering high society, engaging in politics, and re-releasing technologies long thought lost or impossible. By the time of the 200th anniversary of the War of 2077, the Enclave was little more than a social club of the descendants of those that came from the still heavily irradiated Vault.

 **Brahmin Crossing** \- With the influx of Enclave refugees, and the end of the long standing fight between the Brotherhood and Assiniboia Brahmin crossing began to flourish. While it had been a hotbed of discontent for years, the reforms made by Assiniboia soon made those that lived in Assiniboian America, if not happy, then at least more content with their lot in life. Bill Kovak died in 2249, a rich and successful businessman, well respected by Assiniboian and American alike.

 **Colonel Granger** \- After everything that Granger did for the Enclave, him turning into a ghoul in the Battle of Vault E ended his career with them. The Enclave just couldn't accept a 'mutant' leading the army, and so Granger was not only stripped of his rank, but eventually discharged, which, truth be told, was better than anything he could have expected. However, he still held his head high, knowing that he had done the right thing. He became a well known public speaker and personality on DBS, speaking on defense issues and American rights, and would later write an autobiography, My Time With the Auxiliary, which became a bestseller in Assiniboia. Granger would eventually be reinstated into the Enclave and given his old rank back, but only in 2290, long after anyone could really remember why he had been kicked out.

 **Vince** \- Vince, after a lifetime roaming the Wasteland and collecting stories and fighting at the side of the Auxiliary, finally made his way north to look for the fabled NorthTec research lab, never to be heard from again. The Auxiliary, for five years, tried to find him, searching far to the north, right up to the edge of the glacier. Then, in 2223, he returned home, and never spoke of Vince again. While everyone was puzzled, no one dared to ask what happened, as the Auxiliary would refuse to talk about it, once beating up someone that persisted in the questioning. So the story may never be told.

 **Patrick** \- As for Patrick Morrison, the man named the Auxiliary by friend and foe alike, he stepped into the history books of Assiniboia and the Wasteland: the man that went out to find his brother, and saved a nation from tyranny and oppression. While Patrick may have wanted to go back to farm like his ancestors before him, the memories of the destruction of the family home was too much.

So he went off to explore the wastes, and to help the people of the Wasteland where he could, and prevent another terrible conflict like which engulfed Assiniboia and the Brotherhood of Steel from starting again.

For while the actions of one man can change history for the better, there is still violence and suffering in the Wasteland and those that want to dominate it, in both old America and Canada. For every good man wanting to do the right thing, there are many more only out for themselves.

For as long as hatred and the desire for one person to control another exists, there will be war. And as we all know:

War. War never changes.

* * *

WRITER'S NOTE:

Thank you everyone that has read this story, and will continue to do so long after I finish typing this. It's been a long journey for me, with several false starts, a major rewrite, university and life getting in the way, and months where nothing was added, culminating in a frenzied two week flood of chapters and this epilogue. I started writing this story in 2013 while I was still attending university, a year or so after I was introduced into the Fallout game series to begin with. I had the rough draft done by the end of 2016, and now, in the middle of 2018, it's finally edited, finished and posted.

That all said, this story has had a lot of changes since I started it, and a few things may have slipped through. Originally the Dominion Broadcasting System (DBS) was called the Assiniboian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), but that felt too close to the real world. Same with calling the railroad system the Canadian Pacific Railway instead of the Unified Assiniboian Railway. And toward the end may have felt incredibly rushed: part of it was on purpose, of having on crisis compound another and Patrick just being swept along with it, part of it was me reaching a point where I had to end the story so I could move on to working on new projects. As anyone knows, spending five years on one story, on and off, always thinking about it and how it could have been changed or edited or made better is a lot of pressure. Was there more I could added? More I could have clarified? Of course. The final meeting with Elder Ezekiel and the Brotherhood could have drawn out, made longer, became a uber-mecha battle royale fight or with Samurai swords or a rock-paper-scissors battle. I could have had Patrick rescue his brother, then immediately set out on another world changing mission to fill out another 38 chapters. I could have padded the story out, add Agatha Christie mysteries or Lovecraftian horrors or a totally random Monty Python-esque sketch involving the Doctor and Tom Clancy on a trip to the moon. But that would have derailed the story I was telling, and there is nothing worse than screwing the plot of a story just for a "funny bit" that serves no purpose in the long run. It would have been a great addition to a game, but I wasn't working on writing a fully drawn out video game. I wanted to tell the story of a young man in the post-apocalypse who has moved heaven and earth to find his brother, all while exploring a region that rarely, if ever, is touched upon by media in general, much less the Fallout franchise. So, you can take the ending of the story more like a run of a Fallout game that focused mostly on the main quest with minor side quests, hence why you don't see much of the upper leadership of the Brotherhood of Steel until the end, because, if you weren't allying with them, you wouldn't have any reason to meet them before then. And if you think that seems silly, well, you are only required meet Caesar once in Fallout: New Vegas if you are playing for a Mr. House or Independent run, and if you're playing for the NCR, you wouldn't even meet Legate Lanius until the final battle, and you don't have to see Caesar at all. So, there is my cop-out excuse why the story ended so suddenly: New Vegas did it, so why can't I?

That said, I was creating and writing this story with the idea that this would be the basis for creating my own Fallout game, if I had the ability, the rights, the money, and the talented team at Bethesda or Oblivion Studios to actually do it. The problem is that creating a "Bible" for a game is a lot different from telling a story in that world. In video games, Bethesda RPG's especially, you can get the main quest and either follow it right through to the end, or walk to the other side of the map and kill a bunch of raiders, pickpocketing everyone along the way. That wouldn't have made a very interesting story, so there are plenty of "side quests" that came to mind, and settlements I created on my Google Map for Fallout: Assiniboia that I never even had Patrick set foot in, groups he never met, and scenarios that only played out in my head of what I could put him through.

So, I'm currently working on doing just that: writing what I'm calling the "Encyclopedia Assiniboia" that will detail every town, settlement, main or secondary character, main or side quest, companions, factions, groups and creature that the player of such a game could experience. It would basically be reading the Fallout Wiki of a game, on the different ways to complete a quest or characters you can meet. While I've always had the idea of making such a thing, I was particularly inspired by the Fallout: Orleans Bible posted here on , which can be used just for the joy of reading, or as the basis for a tabletop role playing game, an idea that some friends of mine have expressed interest in. I can't promise when it will be done, or how large or thorough it will be, but I will be doing my best to writing it all out, and posting it when it's done.

I also had ideas for what I called the "DLC Stories," stories that fit in with the Fallout: Assiniboia universe, but just not in the story I was telling. I had made a couple of those already: "Fallout Assiniboia: First Year" and "Fallout Assiniboia: Know Your Enemy". I had plans for a few more, but they were shunted to the side mostly because I just didn't have time to write them, along with all the other things I was working on. So if there is some interest in them, I will gladly take a crack at writing a few more of those, and, quite possibly, a "Fallout Assiniboia 2", should the interest be there and I'm not busy with other stuff.

So there we have it. I would like to thank my friends and family for putting up with me as I gushed about this really big writing project that wouldn't make me a single cent because it's based off a video game, and therefore I would get my pants sued off by Bethesda if I did try to publish it. Thank you to Interplay, Bethesda and Oblivion for making these games: I took inspiration from all of them, even if I did focus more on New Vegas. And thank you to everyone that has read the story, left a comment or faved it, hoping for more. That, more than anything, made the work of writing a massive story, nearly a quarter of a million words long in 38 chapters totally worth it.

If you liked my writing, and want to see more, check out tbguy1992 on Twitter for updates on my story projects, or Google me for my blog and Alternate History Wiki page. My biggest dream in life is to be a professional author, and I'm sure Fallout: Assiniboia has gone a long, long way to making those dreams true.

Thank you.


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